


Guardian

by Vulgarian



Category: Destiny (Video Game), Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, F/F, Fighting, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 148,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarian/pseuds/Vulgarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor has power. A great deal of it, in fact. Even if it doesn't seem that way at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life

**Guardian,**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 1: Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life**

 

This was not where it was supposed to be.

 

It _looked_ like it was, certainly. The stars were where they should be. Each planet rotated and revolved in exactly the same way they should. Everything was cosmically accurate, which meant that as lost as it was, it wasn't _too_ lost. That was the good news, and likely to be the only good news it received for a while. Because while the planet beneath it was definitely Earth, and the people living on it were definitely human, that was the extent of things as they should be.

 

Everything else was wrong.

 

There were too many people, and yet not enough. Too many cities, not enough ruins. Places that should be, weren't, and places that shouldn't be, were. People down there were doing incredible things, and this was familiar to it, but they weren't using Light to do it. That was biggest wrong it could see, obvious even in its damaged state. Earth should be shining, a brilliant island of light and life in a sea of encroaching dark. It should have been the last vestige of a once-great people and the point from which they would reclaim everything that had been taken from them.

 

Instead, it was only a planet. Only. If it were capable, it would have laughed. There was nothing _only_ about any planet, let alone the one it hung above now. Where was it going with this? The damage it had sustained must have been worse than first measured, for its thought processes to be derailed so thoroughly and with such ease.

 

Perhaps it was avoiding looking because it already knew what it would find. Perhaps if it kept looking at everything what it kept searching for would somehow appear. That would be a miracle, but then it had come from a place where miracles happened every moment. A tremor rocked its tiny frame and, were it capable of doing so, it would have coughed.

 

Time was running out.

 

Time was running out for the Ghost, for the Guardian it had yet to find, and both of those things paled in comparison to one simple, inescapable fact: t _he Traveler wasn't there_. Imagine waking up one morning, expecting to see your parent – the being that created you and shaped you and gave you life and purpose – and then finding only the space where they used to be.

 

For the Ghost, the knowledge that it was entirely alone and dying was both jarring and unexpected. It was unexpected and yet an outcome it knew from the beginning might happen. The search for a Guardian was a dangerous one. Going to places empty of life and Light in the possibly vain hope that the person they sought would be there was not devoid of risk, after all. From the moment it was created the Ghost knew it could fail and up until that moment, had never considered its own end.

 

It was running out of time. Best, and most optimistic estimates put its eventual end at one week from then, sooner if it by some miracle found somebody down there capable wielding the Traveler's Light. Once again the Traveler's absence crossed its awareness, and it once again thought of the people down there who had never experienced life as it could be. With sensors that were only half as strong as they once were, and diminishing rapidly, it scanned the world beneath and would have winced, had it the face for doing so.

 

Darkness may have not found _this_ Earth, but the mark of it lay over the world just the same. For a moment the Ghost almost wished it had been this world the Traveler found, if only to heal the wounds it saw below. The moment passed, and it found itself drifting lower, passing though wispy clouds and gathering condensation on its warped, fractured shell. It stopped, tens of thousands of feet in the air, and considered. The odds of finding someone down there capable of being a Guardian were low. Where it had come from had once been been a civilization of trillions, and yet the number of active Guardians were just shy of half a million. The Earth it now floated above would be lucky to have more than a dozen.

 

The Ghost would be very lucky indeed if it found _one_ before it died. That, of course, did not mean it wouldn't try. It split apart, exposing its core of pure Light, and _pulsed_. A circle of faint blue expanded from it, ranging away out over the horizon, eventually circling the Earth and coming back to its point of origin. Or it would have, had the Ghost been at its full power. As things were now, it was surprised to be able to cover the North American Continent.

 

“ ** _If I actually_ find _anyone I might drop dead of surprise._** ” it mumbled, voice synthesized, metallic, yet holding a dry, warm humor. The scan finished a moment later, and the Ghost reassembled itself as best it could. “ ** _Of course, I'm pretty much dead anyway, but..._** ” It stopped in the middle of its moment of morbid humor and, had it a mouth, its jaw would have been hanging free in shock. _It had found someone_. Someone who just now, right at that moment, was breathing her last.

 

The Ghost's frame trembled with excitement, joy, and fresh determination. “ ** _Hang on, Guardian._** ” With speed far diminished, yet far beyond any vehicle in existence, it darted down towards the Eastern Seaboard of the United States of America. “ ** _Your Ghost is on the way._** ”

 

=+= Chapter 1: Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life =+=

 

Taylor was fairly certain they hadn't been trying to kill her when they shut her in here. Granted, her skull was cracked and her brains felt like the scrambled eggs she'd had for breakfast that morning and had vomited up not long ago, so the odds of her being in her right mind were not favorable. Even so, attempted murder didn't really fit the pattern their previous actions had established. Petty, childish, emotionally abusive and destructive, certainly, but murderous? Not really.

 

An intrepid ant made its way across the nape of her neck. At least, she thought it was an ant. It was probably an ant. Or a hallucination of an ant. She'd had a few of those, too. Probably. Either that, or the back of her locker really had turned into bread, cheese, her father, and a large dog at one point or another. This actually brought an important question to the front of her possibly damaged, definitely fevered mind. How long had she been in here? Time had gotten wobbly pretty soon after her first, most violent attack of puking.

 

So they weren't trying to kill her, this had been established. So why then, did she feel like she was dying? Her heart alternated between racing fast and hard against the cage of her ribs and beating so slowly she was certain it had stopped between pulses. Even if insects weren't crawling over her skin, she felt as if they were inside of it. She no longer distinguished between sources of pain, or was no longer able to, so she couldn't tell if she'd broken anything on the way in. There were problems with breathing through her nose, so it being broken was likely.

 

Her eyes fluttered and she fought to keep them open. An instinct, deeply buried by her civilized, safe upbringing told her that if she let her eyes close it would be for the last time. “I don' wan' to die.” she mumbled through lips that might have been thick and swollen or may have been just fine. “Don'...don' let me die here.” There was no answer, of course. Clearing out the room had been the first part of today's seemingly harmless prank.

 

Taylor didn't want to think about that, though. She didn't want to think about how heartbroken she'd been to be abandoned, then bullied by a girl who'd been her best friend since childhood. She didn't want to think about how shitty her life had been since she started high school. She didn't want to think about these things because she wasn't certain which of her thoughts would be the last.

 

Was she dying? She didn't feel like it anymore. In fact, she felt kind of...good. Well, maybe not _good_ , but definitely better. Maybe her foot had slid and her new position was more comfortable? There wasn't a _lot_ of room in here, especially for someone as tall as she, so...

 

Hang on, where was she going with this? Any moment could be the one where her battered, bleeding self finally threw in the towel and she was complaining about the _space_?! Then again, it was an important thing to think about, and growing more so with the advancing edges of gray in her vision. Because if she was thinking about the locker, and how cramped it was, she wouldn't be able to think about how she'd probably never see her dad again.

 

Despite her best, most valiant effort, her left eye closed, and no amount of trying could get it open again. “No' like this.” she begged. “Please. No'...No' like this.” But no one was listening, it seemed. Or at least, anyone who had been either didn't care, was no longer around, or deaf. Taylor tried to find the strength to fight. To kick or shout or wiggle. If she could get free then maybe, just _maybe,_ she'd be okay. The thought was a good one, but pointless. She didn't have the strength. She didn't have anything left, in fact.

 

Well. There was just one thing. A small speck of light. Her right eye slipped closed and she went still, her last breath leaving her in a small sigh. Just before she lost all awareness, there was a voice in the dark. A voice that spoke four words.

 

Those words?

 

“ _ **Oh, no you don't.**_ ”

 

 

=+= Chapter 1: Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life =+=

 

Life and breath came back to Taylor in the same moment. The sound of her sucking air into her starving lungs was loud in her ears, as was the buzz of the overhead fluorescent and the rush of blood in her ears. She could hear the sound of dozens of people walking, the squeaky impact of sneakers on tile floor multiplied a hundredfold and the dull roar of overlapping conversations.

 

Her throat worked, swallowing acidic saliva that tasted faintly of blood and vomit and she gagged. _Oh, please please please don't let me puke,_ she begged, _I'm so tired of puking_. Someone must have been listening, or she just had nothing left in her stomach to hurl up. She breathed deeply, slowly, and considered the latter to be more likely. Then something weird drifted across her gradually solidifying consciousness.

 

Her clothes felt scratchy. Like they were woven from thick, coarse, woolen threads. On top of that they were soaked through with a variety of unpleasant bodily fluids. They dragged wetly across her skin with every breath. The tile beneath her bare arms and neck were cool and soothing, yet she was aware of the tiny pebbling across the surface of each tile touching her skin. Of course, each thing her newly found awareness brought to her attention diverted her from the worst thing.

 

The smell.

 

It was blood and vomit and sweat and body odor mixed with the scent of the poorly mixed bleach the janitors mopped the floor with every night. Or at least, that they were _supposed_ to mop the floor with every night. It tingled in the back of her nose and dragged sandpaper over the back of her throat. It was revolting and a reminder of what she had just escaped.

 

Speaking of which...how _had_ she done that? Maybe she'd be able to figure it out if she opened her eyes. Taylor's eyes, however, did not want that to happen. They were heavy and stuck together, resisting her every attempt at opening them. For a moment. Her indomitable will had her eyes opening up sooner than she was expecting and she immediately regretted it. Everything was too bright. The overhead fluorescent had been replaced with pure, undiluted sunlight that did its best to sear her eyes out of her skull.

 

“Ow,” she rasped though a dry throat. “Ow, ow, that's bright.” The pain in her hypersensitive eyes made her aware of the fact that they...were the only part of her that actually hurt. In fact...she felt _amazing_. Like she could run forever and as fast as the wind.

 

“ _ **I'm told that happens to Guardians when they first wake up.**_ ”

 

That voice! She recognized that voice! It was the same one she'd heard just before she lost consciousness. Her eyes snapped open and she whipped her head in the direction it had come from and...stopped. Completely. What she was seeing now was entirely beyond her experience. It was small, no bigger than her fists bunched together, and floating a couple of feet off the floor. The metal its body was made from was white, cracked, and warped. Like something had tried to tear it apart from every direction at once.

 

The seeming damage was offset by the intensity with which the small dot of light in its center shone. She lifted a hand to point a surprisingly steady finger at it. “Did – did you just...?”

 

“ _ **Talk?**_ ” the thing bobbed up and down in the air. “ _ **Yeah, that was me.**_ ”

 

“What?” Her throat was dry. She swallowed. It didn't help. “What _are_ you?”

 

“ _ **Well.**_ ” It paused, as if taking the opportunity to relish what it was about to say. “ _ **I'm a Ghost. Actually, now I'm**_ **your** _ **Ghost.**_ ”

 

For a brief, hysterical minute, Taylor thought she'd died and the afterlife was nothing like she'd been led to believe. Then she calmed down enough to realize that was a crazy thought. Wasn't it? “Am I dead?”

 

The Ghost chirped. “ _ **No. Not anymore, anyway.**_ ”

 

Her breath caught. “Then I _was_?!”

 

“ _ **Yes. For less than two minutes, your heart stopped. Then I found you, Guardian. You're all right now. In fact, you're better than all right.**_ ”

 

Taylor slid herself along the floor until she could rest against the locker across the room from her own. She took a moment to get a grasp on the fact she'd been dead – this didn't take as long as she'd expected it to. Something _strange_ was going on – then turned her gaze to the Ghost. “I think you'd better start from the beginning, Ghost. What are you, what did you to do me, and what's going to happen next?”

 

The Ghost chirped in an agreeable way. “ _ **Of course, Guardian. It will take a while to explain. Are you comfortable enough to do it here?**_ ”

 

“Better here than a police station.” Taylor was sure of that much. “Start with why you keep calling me that.”

 

“ _ **It started, quite literally, a long time ago – or from now, depending on which of us you ask – on an Earth that was very much like this one. With some minor differences. One of those differences was called, by the people who found it, the Traveler...”**_

 

And so it was that less than ten feet from the place where she, at least temporarily, died, Taylor listened. And in listening, learned.

 

=+= Chapter 1: Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life =+=

 

“So.” Taylor had been sitting for some time now – anywhere between fifteen minutes to a quarter hour – and she was finally starting to feel it. The minor discomfort in her butt was offset by the influx of knowledge she'd just been party to. All the same, she stood and shook her legs out one at a time to get the blood flowing again. “Let me try and get it all straight. First thing first; you're from a different Earth.”

 

The Ghost chirped again. “ _ **Yes.**_ ”

 

“I get that.” She flexed the toes of each foot, feeling them crack in a most satisfying manner. That was frankly the easiest part of what she'd been told. Alternate Earths had been an accepted thing for a while now. “Okay, second thing: you're from the future. Like, _way_ into the future.”

 

“ _ **That depends. What's the date?**_ ”

 

“2011.” she was now bouncing on her toes, feeling oddly antsy. Cagey. “April 11th, I think.”

 

“ _ **Then yes,**_ ” the Ghost sounded both amused and concerned by her doubt of the exact day. “ _ **I'm from**_ **way** _ **into the future. At least 500 years.**_ ”

 

Again, Taylor could stomach this with little difficulty. If there existed a cape who could snatch the souls right out of people and use them as weapons, why not time travel? “Right. Third thing. You didn't mean to come here and find me.”

 

“ _ **Not that I regret it, but also true. I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't believe you were worthy, Guardian.**_ ”

 

“Which leads to the fourth thing.” Taylor started to pace, slowly being overcome by the urge to _move_. To run and leap and climb and explore. “I'm a Guardian now. Which is like a parahuman, but not. I'm stronger, faster, my senses are all jacked up, and I can do stuff with light.”

 

“ _ **Not light, Guardian. Light. Capital L. It's not a subtle distinction. With light you illuminate a dark space, but with Light you can push back true Darkness. Forge weapons from fire, lightning, or the void. It reinforces your body and mind. It sets you apart. Makes you capable of incredible things.**_ ”

 

“What can I do?” Her hands curled and uncurled. “And why am I feeling so antsy all of a sudden?”

 

“ _ **To to the first I can only say that it is up to you decide how you wield your Light. Some Guardians choose to delve the mysteries of existence and become a Warlock. Others wrap their arms in fields of power and stand the City's walls as a Titan. Still others are drawn to the wild places and forgotten paths. They call themselves Hunters, and unless I miss my guess, you will be one of these.**_ ”

 

_A hunter, huh?_ When Taylor had been very small her dad had a friend who was very interested in going up to the wildlife park every deer season and pursuing a buck that had eluded him for decades, or so he claimed. She never learned how skilled he was at finding the deer, but she knew for a fact he was a fantastic storyteller. She'd spent hours listening to him describe the cool, dry morning air brushing against his face. How the dew from trees and grass soaked through his clothes and left him shivering.

 

He would describe, in an awed whisper, how quiet it was, out there alone. The way the sun rose over the tree canopies, as if just for him. She'd heard him describe isolated glens, burbling streams, and solitary waterfalls. It was clear to her now that more had stuck with her over the years than she'd thought. Now each image came to mind with strong, vivid clarity. She _yearned_ to see these places, to find new places. She wanted to go and see and find and get out of this room because she'd died there and it smelled like puke and rot and blood.

 

“Okay.” she came to a halt. “One last thing.”

 

“ _ **I'm listening.**_ ”

 

“What did you mean when you said you were dying?”

 

There was a metallic rasp that rang in the air, and it took Taylor a moment to realize the Ghost had just sighed. “ _ **I don't know what material I was made from. I've watched bullets of all calibers bounce off other Ghosts. I've seen the solar lances of the Vex splash harmlessly on our frames. I spent the centuries searching for my Guardian thinking Ghosts were indestructible. It turns out that is only mostly true. However I came to be here damaged me immensely, and making you a Guardian did more. As of now I estimate my lifespan to extend to the end of the week. Monday, if I don't have to resurrect you again.**_ ”

 

“I...” Taylor didn't know how to react to that. The itch to move all but faded. She could still feel it, would _always_ feel it, but now she was overcome by something new. Something like... “I'm sorry.”

 

“ _ **Don't be.**_ ” the Ghost's voice was firm, gentle, and as always, metallic. “ ** _Finding you was my purpose for existence, and I can't describe how it made me feel to finally meet you._** ”

 

“So...” Her cheeks warmed, matching the feeling in her chest. Some combination of touched, flattered, and complimented. And a tiny niggle of doubt that, when she failed to silence it, was simply ignored. “What do we do now?”

 

“ _ **That, Guardian, is up to you. I suggest finding a change of clothes. I may not have a nose or sense of smell, but I'm pretty sure you stink.**_ ”

 

“Hey!” Taylor pointed an indignant finger at the little being. “You try coming out of something as nasty as _that_ ,” the finger shifted to the remains of her locker, sans door. Where _had_ that gone, anyway? “and smell like roses.”

 

“ _ **I come to an alternate dimension to find my Guardian, and she gives me backchat.**_ ” the Ghost was now full of false mourning. “ ** _I truly lead a thankless existence_**.”

 

That reminded her... “Hey, Ghost?”

 

“ _ **Guardian?**_ ”

 

“Thank you. Thank you _so_ much.”

 

There was no mistaking the warmth in the Ghost's voice. Even though he saved her life and gave her power beyond imagining, she got the feeling that _he_ was the one who wanted to be thanking _her_. “ _ **Not a problem**_.”

 

=+= Chapter 1: Taylor Hebert, This Is Your Life

 

 

 

 


	2. Hear Me Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a variety of things happen.

**Guardian,**

**A Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar**

 

The locker room had showers that hadn't been used, Taylor was pretty sure, since shortly after the school opened. They didn't have hot water, what water did come out was dirtied by rusty pipes. It was the sort of water only the truly filthy or the truly desperate were willing to subject themselves to. As luck would or would not have it, she fit neatly into both categories. She was covered head to toe in filth that, while not defying description, certainly eluded it. Her mouth was desert dry and filled with the sour tasting residue of vomit. Her injuries may have been healed by her Ghost, but the taste and smell of blood still lingered about her.

 

All of this made stepping under the frigid, strangled flow of water the greatest sensation of her young life. While she bathed she had an intense strategy session with herself and came up with the rough outline of a plan. Which went as follows:

 

Step 1: Get clean using these God sent showers.

 

Step 2: Go home.

 

Step 3: Eat something? She _was_ kinda hungry.

 

She also wasn't sure of her plan beyond the first two steps. Which was probably fine. She only had superpowers now and an invisible sorta-robot friend who literally brought her back from the dead and _gave_ her those superpowers. Not having a plan and all of that practically went hand in hand. So maybe, once she got home and came up with a convincing lie for her dad, Taylor could do some brainstorming and see what her options were. Or what they could be.

 

The pipes groaned in a mutinous, tired sort of way when she turned the shower off. Having cleaned her clothes at the same time she did the rest of her, she squelched out of the shower room and headed to the door that would lead her through the gym, into the school proper, and eventually home. She paused with her hand resting on the metal door handle. Something had just occurred to her. Something that should have much sooner. “Ghost?”

 

“ _ **Guardian?**_ ”

 

“How am I going to get out of here without being seen?”

 

“ _ **I'm afraid I can't help you with that, Guardian. If you want to leave this building without being seen, I can only provide information. What you do with it, and how you proceed, are up to you.**_ ”

 

Taylor sighed, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Wonderful.”

 

The Ghost then tried to be helpful. “ _**Think of it as your first test as a Hunter. Stealth is a large part of their method, after all.**_ ”

 

 _Stealth, huh?_ Taylor turned the idea over in her head and found herself warming to the idea. The same part of her that had earlier wanted to run and climb and fight and be _free_ now whispered that it would _hilarious_ fun to sneak through a school while wearing shoes that squelched when she walked. Never mind that it was so full of people that not bumping into someone was almost impossible. She was a Guardian now. Wasn't doing impossible things what they were all about?

 

A grin started on her lips. “I _think_ I have an idea.”

 

=+= Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar =+=

 

Panting, Taylor collapsed against a tree and clutched at her pounding heart. There was an urge to crow to the skies that she was the bomb, the supreme Hunter, the best that's ever been. It was an urge she stifled, because she was still close to the school. In fact, she was still in sight of the first floor window she'd slid out of in her escape. Her legs felt rubbery and ill-tempered to cooperate, yet she moved around to put the tree between her and the school.

 

She may have reined in her impulse to start boasting, but there was no stopping the clenched fist of victory she pumped. “ _ **Well done, Guardian.**_ ” In the air above her shoulder Ghost made itself visible in a flicker of light – not Light, or at least probably not. “ _ **Well done, indeed.**_ ”

 

“Thanks, Ghost.” It was then she became aware of how widely she was smiling. It was the kind most often seen on people at the moment of their greatest triumph. The kind of smile that lit up a person's entire face and made them look so very _alive_. If she were to ask the Ghost, it would have told her that it was the sort of smile that she should display as often as possible. Understandably absorbed in her moment of supreme skill as she was, this did not happen. With effort, she fought the smile down. “Okay, um...now what? Right. Time to go home.”

 

“ _ **As you say, Guardian**_.” Another flicker of light, and Ghost disappeared. Taylor was aware of its presence nearby and drew comfort from it. The Ghost had brought her back, in more than one way. It was also, quite possibly, the one living thing in her world that one-hundred percent had her back. She loved her father, and wouldn't trade or change him for anything, but her mother's death had hit him, in some way, harder than it had her. Couple that with the slow death of the city that he bore witness to every day, and...

 

Well, he'd been home every night, but it had been a long time since he was actually there.

 

That aside, it was a cool, cloudy April's midday. A breeze was blowing in from the bay, and though she wasn't feeling as cold as she should be – another perk of being a Guardian, perhaps – it still put a shiver in her limbs. Taylor hugged her middle, sticking her fingers into her armpits to preserve warmth, and figured out the quickest way back to her house. Once she was done plotting that out, she set out. Headed towards home and whatever came next.

 

=+= Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar =+=

 

Warm, dry clothes were the greatest thing in the history of ever. Taylor would accept no debating on the subject, no questions, and no investigation. Going from cold, damp clothes to their exact opposite had to be the pinnacle of existence, or close enough that you couldn't see otherwise unless you squinted. She lay spread-eagle on her bed, luxuriating in the width of her bed. The slight burn in her muscles and the freedom of motion were used to forever banish the twinned sensations of claustrophobia and confinement from her mind. This, she resolved, would be the last time she gave them anything.

 

From here on out things would be different. She'd see to it. But later. Right now she had bigger, more interesting things to think about. Like the Light coursing through, and strengthening, her body. Like the Ghost flitting with avid interest around her room. Like how she was going to go about practicing or even figuring out how to use what she had been given. Because she was going to use it. When she figured it out, _and she would_ , her next would be to make herself a hero. Or maybe a Hero.

 

Taylor was getting ahead of herself, though. She sat up, crossing her legs Indian style and biting her lip. The Light was part of her. She could feel it, but could not access it. Thus was her dilemma. How did she change that? There was a way to reach inside of herself, take hold of the Light, and shape it. Draw it and mold it and make it a weapon against her enemies.

 

“ _ **What troubles you, Guardian?**_ ” Ghost had settled above her headboard, single dot of light looking down on her. She sighed and fell back on her pillows, bouncing as she settled in her bed.

 

“I'm trying to figure out how to use the Light.” Another long breath hissed out through her nose. “Coming up blank, though.”

 

“ _ **I wish I could be more helpful.**_ ” Ghost sounded regretful, voice tinged with something like shame.

 

She hummed and pursed her lips, shifting them left, then right, and back again. “Maybe I'm over-thinking it.” This tended to happen to her. Confronted with a problem, she would assume the solution was more complex than it usually turned out to be. “Maybe I just need to...” An expressive hand was waved. “... _do_ it.”

 

Both she and her Ghost were silent for a long minute. The only noises in the room were the quiet sounds of her mattress settling under her weight, the whir and clunk of her ceiling fan, and the gentle chirping hum of Ghost. Then it was broken. “ _ **Guardian? I think I have an idea.**_ ”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“ _ **You are a Hunter. What I know of Hunters indicate that most of how they utilize Light is channeling it through tools. Blades, guns, bows. Perhaps you could try that?**_ ”

 

Taylor sat up and directed a wry look at her Ghost's warped frame. “You couldn't have mentioned this before?”

 

Ghost drooped. “ _ **Apologies, Guardian. The damage to my systems has limited my processing capabilities, in addition to my other functions. Accessing my records and sorting the relevant data took...longer.**_ ”

 

“Oh.” Guilt touched her, then. And sorrow. “Ghost, I didn't mean to...” That didn't work. So she tried again. “I wasn't being...” Nope. Why couldn't she just say it?

 

“ _ **Don't worry.**_ ” Ghost seemed to understand, and the warmth in his synthetic voice reflected it. “ _ **I know.**_ ”

 

“Still.” The sharpness in her chest remained. “It's not right.”

 

“ _ **Many things happen that aren't.**_ ” Ghost bobbed up and down in the air, as if nodding. Then, a series of clicks later, “ _ **I don't imagine you have access to a gun or a bow?**_ ”

 

“Not...not really.”

 

“ _ **A blade, then?**_ ”

 

Taylor knew it was trying to change the subject. She knew, and she let it. Knowing that her Ghost, and it _was_ hers, was going to die did not sit well with her. But as it stood right now, there was nothing she could do, and obsessing over it would drive her insane. She knew _that_ from experience. So she let the little being chivvy her downstairs to the kitchen and a possible solution to her power problem.

 

=+= Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar =+=

 

The knife she settled on was for all intents and purposes a kitchen knife. The sort she'd used to chop vegetables a few dozen times before. The blade was a thin, flexible metal that joined with its black plastic handle after about four inches of naked, slightly dull edge. She turned it over, tapping the flat metal on her palm a few times. It wasn't the most glorious of weaponry. It wasn't even a weapon, really. But...She could feel something in it. Like a burst of inspiration during a project or an especially tricky puzzle. There was _something_ there. All she had to do was reach it.

 

Her eyes narrowed into a frown, never leaving the knife in her hands as she carried it to the kitchen table, sitting to devote her entire focus to the feeling inside of her. Or was it inside the knife? Both? She blinked, and shook her head. Chasing those thoughts would lead her in a circle for the rest of the day. Sure, it'd feel like progress, but she wouldn't actually get anywhere. Taylor hummed, once, and softly to herself. On a whim – or some instinct she wasn't sure of – she flipped the knife in her hand so the blade protruded from the bottom of her fist.

 

There! That felt...that felt good. That felt _right._ She was aware, in a distant corner of her mind, that her Ghost was hovering in utter silence across the table from her. But she was so consumed by her efforts she barely noticed him. A deep breath entered and exited her body, and for a moment she went still. In that moment, she _finally_ bridged the gap between her and the Light that coursed through her. Sensation rushed through her, vast and bright and so very strong.

 

That's when it happened. Crackling blue energy formed around the knife, stretching its edge and width until it was more than half a foot long. The tip punched through the tile-and-wood table with the same ease and attention a propeller cut water or air. A pitched buzz vibrated in the air, and the smell of asphalt just after rain followed. She moved it through the air, hand twisting and bending at the wrist to change the timbre of the buzz as the knife move through the air.

 

Her heart pounded, elated, in her chest. She'd done it! She'd _fucking_ done it! A wide, prideful grin did more to illuminate her face than the blue glow from her blade. Across from Ghost appeared as transfixed by her triumph as she was. The protrusions on either side of its center light flexed. A smile? She couldn't tell, and with the rush of Light pounding through her veins, it was hard to focus on anything else.

 

“ _ **Well done, Guardian.**_ ” Ghost's voice carried the proud smile it hadn't been able to show her a moment ago. It was a smile she returned, albeit with a more ferocious edge. With this in her hands, Taylor felt powerful. She had agency, now. She could _do_ something for the first time in what felt like forever. Right? Before she could delve too deeply into possibility, there was a sound at the door that sent a bolt of pure terror to her heart.

 

It was the sound of a key turning in a lock, failing to because the door was already unlocked, and the doorknob starting to turn. It was a sound that meant her dad was home, and she was sitting at the kitchen table with a blade shaped and charged by lightning itself.

 

Luckily, the first problem solved the second. The shock of realizing her dad was home early had distracted her enough that the blade winked out, leaving the kitchen seeming darker than it had before just as the front door swung wide and in stepped the man himself.

 

“Taylor?” he blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?” His nose wrinkled. “And why does it smell like ozone?”

 

She put the knife down flat as quietly and quickly as she could. “I live here, remember?” Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth right now, such was the innocence of her expression. “And I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

It was with a doubting, reproachful look that her dad reminded her that it was he who she'd refined her lying face on as a kid. “Very funny.” he stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him. By rote he reached behind him to turn the deadbolt, something she'd forgotten to do in her rush to get inside and warm. A moment of silence passed as father looked at daughter, and daughter looked right back. Ghost, perhaps wisely, was nowhere to be found. “So.” He sat down across from her. “Do you have any idea why Winslow called me about the fact that you up and disappeared in the middle of the day?”

 

Taylor sighed. “I think I might.”

 

=+= Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar =+=

 

She knew, for her entire life, that her father had inherited her grandfather's temper. So had she, for that matter. It seemed to be a Hebert trait. Inside their tall, skinny frames was an explosive anger that was quick to ignite and quick to burn away. Rather like an explosion, however, while it lasted her dad's temper was loud and frightening. There were some who might have thought, especially given the events of the past years, that she was afraid he would have turned that temper onto her. This was untrue. Taylor had never been afraid of her dad. _For_ him, certainly. But of him? Never. Then again, she'd never seen him quite this angry before.

 

He was still. Utterly, near inhumanly still. His eyes behind his glasses were wide, pupils dilated. On the table before him his fists were clenched and trembling. Long, slow deep breaths moved through him. “Emma's the ringleader, you said?” His voice was quiet, and far too level. She nodded. So did he. “I see. I think I need to make a phone call. It's been a long time since I really talked to Alan.”

 

Concern coiled hot in her gut. “Dad, don't...don't do anything, you know...”

 

“I won't.” It was a promise delivered as he was standing, moving toward the kitchen phone. Despite the fact she received it when he wasn't looking at her, she grabbed onto it with both hands and believed. She could hear him punching in the numbers on the handset with more force than it warranted. He remained, standing tall and still, while it rang in his ear. “Alan? It's Danny. We need to talk. _Now._ ” His flickered over to where she still sat, and he moved into his office, shutting the door behind him with a _click_.

 

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It gusted out through her nose in a long sigh. That had been...intense. She hadn't seen anything like that before. Not from her, from her mom, her friends, or anyone. What she had just borne witness to was a level of anger that she suspected most people never reached in their lives. From above her shoulder came the sound of her Ghost coming back into visibility. “ _ **Guardian?**_ ”

 

“Yeah, Ghost?”

 

“ _ **Remind me never to make him angry at me. Or you, I guess.**_ _”_

 

“Yeah, Ghost.”

 

Now that she'd ridden herself of the, until recently, biggest secret she'd ever kept from her dad, she felt...lighter. Cleaner. Like she'd shed a burden that was _just_ heavy enough to be carried alone but never intended to. It had been a shackle, this secret, chaining her to the people acting against her.

 

Now she was free. She liked that. She liked that very much. Loose in the limb from a sense of relief and release, Taylor went to flop on the living room couch and find something mindless on TV to watch. After the exultation in working out how to use her power, or at least a facet of it, and _finally_ telling her dad, she just wanted to sit and zone out of the world for a little while. She'd earned that today, she felt.

 

Forgotten by both the elder Hebert and the younger one, the kitchen knife lay flat on the dining room table. It had been... _changed._ The blade had narrowed, tapering and refining its edge. The handle had shrunk and deformed around where Taylor had been holding it, especially where her index and ring fingers had curled around. The human inhabitants of the house may have missed it, but the single _inhuman_ one did not. Ghost clicked and hummed to itself as it bobbed gently over the blade.

 

“ _ **Now that**_ **is** _ **interesting.**_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 2: Hear Me Roar =+=

 

 

 


	3. Paint the Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor really should have known better than to think the Internet was an infallible source of information.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 3: Paint the Town**

 

Taylor had retreated to the place she was coming to think of as her lair. Before becoming a Guardian, it had only been her bedroom, but now it held every scrap of information she'd been able to glean. Solid information and speculation on her abilities. Places she might go to push herself to the limit. A growing dossier, full of as much concrete information she'd been able to put together on the major and minor players in the so called 'cape scene'. The beginning steps of what looked like a course of action. And of course, the knife. _Her_ knife.

 

It wouldn't be impossible for someone to assume that Taylor was a neat person, and diligent in keeping everything organized. This person would only have to ask her dad and, after he had finished laughing, learn that he would be happy to disabuse them of the notion. The physical evidence of her new life was scattered all over the desk and the floor around it. A disorganized mess to everyone but its creator. Which was the only person it needed to make sense for, really.

 

Or so she liked to say, whenever the subjects of 'cleaning' and 'her room' came up. It hadn't worked so far, but she was determined, dedicated, and clever. She'd find a way. But that was for later. Right now she was trying to find a starting point, and was bouncing ideas both off her wall and her Ghost, who was flitting around her room mumbling to itself about the mess.

 

She had an idea, considered it carefully, and discarded it before she could give voice to it. This being the third time such a thing occurred in a row, she gave a muffled shriek of frustration and thumped her head back against her chair. The motion sent the thing on a slow rotation, sending her on a full revolution before her knee thumped against the desk and brought her to a stop. “This is...” Her lower lip was chewed for a moment. “a lot more confusing than I thought it would be.”

 

No hero or villain had made any statements on _how,_ exactly, they got started. With the notable exception of the various Protectorate programs, of course. Everyone knew how those guys got their starts because they made sure of it. She supposed it wouldn't be too difficult to join up. It would certainly solve a lot of problems for her. Protectorate Heroes got funding, training, outfitting, everything she would need to be a successful Hunter and Guardian.

 

That _would_ mean she'd have to tell her dad. She didn't think he'd disapprove, by any means, but she wasn't sure how many more shocks he could take given the previous evening's revelations. There wasn't a scenario she could envision where she went out and did heroics in any form without him noticing something. She'd end up telling him before long, she knew this, but for right now she wanted to keep it to herself. It was something wonderful, something _great_ that was hers and hers alone. Well...hers and her Ghost's.

 

She was getting antsy. Drumming her fingers along the chair's armrests and tapping her feet on its wheel legs. An ache was making itself known, one subsumed under the flood of the last day's events. She supposed it was the Hunter in her, telling her now to go out and find new things. It was a tempting whisper, she had to admit. Her dad had gone off to work, after making sure she wasn't going in to school, and so she was all by her lonesome in their quiet little house. A long, deep sigh coursed through her.

 

“ _ **That's the third time in ten minutes you've done that, Guardian**_.” She was brought out of her gradual warming to the idea of going out for a jog or something by her Ghost's... _helpful_...notification.

 

“That's because it's the third time in ten minutes I've realized I have no idea what to do.” Here she lifted a hand and let it drop. “Until now. We have a course of action, Ghost.”

 

Her Ghost's voice was wry. “ _ **Do tell.**_ ”

 

“We're going for a walk. Do I need a leash for you?” She smiled impishly as it titled down at her, looking for all the world like it was frowning.

 

“ _ **That's not funny.**_ ”

 

Well. She thought it was. That was all that she needed to have herself a giggle fit on the way downstairs. Taylor grabbed her sweater from the back of the couch, which was exactly where she'd left it, for once, and was almost out the door when she stopped. Her left hand curled into a fist and relaxed. Two minutes and a trip back upstairs later and she was leaving with her knife, blade wrapped securely in a very old tube sock.

 

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

 

There was a illicit thrill to walking around in broad daylight with a semi-naked blade on her person. A thrill, she had to admit, that was made null by how much care she had to take not to stab herself in the butt. That was first on the rather spontaneous to-do list now in her head. As luck would have it, there was a sporting goods store within walking distance. Whether or not they would be able to help was another matter entirely. There was nothing to be lost in trying, however, so that became her first destination.

 

The clerk behind the register had been bemused, but very helpful, especially after being told the knife was a present for an uncle, and so Taylor left the store ten minutes later flushed with success and the owner of a cheap leather belt sheath for her knife. It still wasn't the sort of thing a law abiding citizen could openly carry, so she tucked its now covered length into her back pocket and covered it with her sweater. The sock, now tattered and holed, went into a nearby trashcan.

 

Taylor found herself drifting towards the Boardwalk, tourist trap the place was, as she pondered what to do next. Somewhere in the depths of her notes and plans there was a costume. One she would need to finish, sooner or later. It was a struggle coming up with something that suited her. Most of it continued to elude her, however, with a notable exception: a cloak. A hooded, calf-length cloak. The rest of it would, and probably could change depending on her mood, but that remained constant.

 

_Hold on..._

 

Hadn't there been something about a rogue Tinker? One who specialized in fabrics, and who was known for doing costumes on commission? She chewed her lip a moment, then ducked behind a store so she could have a quick conversation. “Ghost.”

 

“ _ **Guardian?**_ ” She flinched at the seeming volume of her Ghost's synthetic voice, but moved past her needless paranoia.

 

“Do you remember the rogue Tinker, the one who worked with like, fabrics and stuff? Can you remember her name? I'm drawing a blank.”

 

There was a series of clicks from the air in front of her, a hum, and then her Ghost became visible. She noticed in the open light how _terrible_ it looked. Warped and cracked, jagged rents as long as her pinkie and short as her nail dotting its frame. Moments later, she had her answer. “ _ **Our research indicates the cape you're talking about is Parian. She's actually doing a puppet show not far from here. We can make it if we hurry.**_ ”

 

Now wasn't that fortuitous? “Then hurry we will.” Taylor began to put action to her words before she stopped as something occurred to her. “I don't think I've got enough money to have her make me a costume.” Then she shrugged. “Eh, maybe we can work something out.”

 

“ _ **It's a moot point if you don't actually talk to her, Guardian.**_ ”

 

With that, Ghost went back to being invisible and she found herself moving at a fast walk towards the parahuman puppet show.

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

 

Taylor missed the show by less than a minute. In fact, the parahuman puppeteer was still deep in her curtsy to her wildly applauding audience when she got there. Parian presented herself as a Victorian-era doll come to life. From neck to foot her costume was layered cloth and skirts that brushed against the ground as she rose. Her hands were covered in thin gloves and her face was hidden by a mask of a smiling woman. She had also, for whatever reason, tucked her hair into a wig of thick, golden curls. It was only with Taylor's keener sense of vision that she saw the few dark hairs escaping the back and bottom of the wig cap.

 

The puppets, having bowed along with their creator, began to pack each other away into duffel bags that in turn wiggled towards a shop like weird, fabric worms. Taylor found her head tilting to the side as she watched their journey across the polished concrete floor of the square of shops the performance had taken place in. The sight almost – _almost –_ made up for missing the show itself. Parian was shaking people's hands as they approached her, accepting compliments with a nod and a few kind words. She produced business cards from her sleeves and handed them out to whoever asked. As Taylor stood there, the crowd began to thin.

 

This was the optimal moment to walk up and introduce herself. All she had to do was walk up to a person she'd never met, whose face she couldn't see, and try and bargain for a costume. She could do that. Couldn't she?

 

She started walking. It seemed that she could. After all, when compared to dying and being resurrected by a dimensionally confused robot, talking to some person she'd never met was sort of...not as big a deal? The anxiety was still there, certainly. It bubbled and churned happily in her gut and made her heart feel like it was trying to climb up out of her mouth. She could deal with it. She _would_ deal with it. Before her confidence could really set in, she found herself in front of Parian, who turned out to be shorter than Taylor.

 

 _Say something._ Say _something, Taylor._

 

“Uh.” Why was her mouth dry all of a sudden? “Hi!”

 

Behind her mask, Parian's dark eyes warmed. “Hello. Did you enjoy the show?”

 

It was an effort to hide her pout. “Actually I...sort of missed it.” Maybe she hadn't hidden her pout as well as she'd thought, because a light laugh came from the masked woman in front of her.

 

“I'm sorry to hear that. I'll be doing another one at three if you're still around.”

 

That was good to know. Maybe she could go where she could see the PRT headquarters out in the bay and cape watch, or something. It was...what? One? One thirty? Wait, no. Focus. A short, deep breath in through her nose brought her thoughts back on track. “That's good to know, but...that's not actually why I'm here.”

 

“Oh?” Parian's eyes darkened, and her stance shifted. She looked wary now, cautious. Maybe Taylor should have chosen her words better? “What are you here for?”

 

Confession time. “I was – I was kind of hoping I could hire you?” That wasn't supposed to have been a question, but at this point Taylor was just happy to have gotten the words out. Parian relaxed at the explanation. Not by much, but enough to make Taylor feel she'd calmed the other girl down some.

 

“What for?”

 

Taylor looked around. There were _way_ too many people around. Too many opportunities for eavesdroppers or nosy people to pick up a word where they shouldn't. “Is there somewhere else we can go to talk? This isn't the sort of thing I want to talk about in broad daylight.”

 

This was the wrong thing to say. Parian's eyes lost all signs of warmth, and the loose ends of her costume began to flutter in a breeze that wasn't there. “I think you should tell me here.” The cape's voice was flat. The tremor in her hands was so minor only someone looking could notice. Or someone whose entire being had been suffused and enhanced with Light.

 

Some half remembered snip of a forum post surfaced in her mind. Something about how unaffiliated Tinkers didn't stay that way for long. They either joined up with any number of official hero groups, were... _recruited_...by gangs, or killed. Taylor's heart sank as she realized exactly how misunderstood she'd just been. Now was the time to do something. To clear the air. But how? Best idea; just up and tell Parian why she was there.

 

So that was what she did. A half step forward brought Taylor into whispering range. Or a very quiet murmur. Either way, it her best bet at not being overheard. “I want you to make me a costume.”

 

“Oh!” Parian blinked. Then she blinked again. “Oh.”

 

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

 

“I...am _so_ sorry.”

 

Taylor found repressing first the urge to sigh, then a nervous laugh. Having just received the fourth apology in as many minutes and already on edge, she was very near to being what polite society would refer to as 'frazzled'. Two things kept her going; first, that she had come this far, and committed herself, so much so that backing out now would probably cause a lot of harm. The second thing was currently invisible and reminding her of its presence by gently bumping against the side of her head every so often.

 

“It's _fine_.” The reassurance slipped from her even as she inspected the shop they had moved to after her little revelation. Parian didn't own it, but it turned out that she was friendly with the owner, who had agreed to supply her with fabrics to work with in exchange for being able to sell her more fashionably inclined creations. A true this-for-that situation. Taylor found herself approving of the sheer utility of the situation.

 

The shop itself wasn't out of the ordinary. Rolls of fabric dotted tables scattered around the main floor. Mannequins wearing elaborately simple clothing stood in the windows and along the walls. The back room was the office, and kept separate from the rest of the shop by a flimsy looking plywood door that had no doorknob. Undaunted by Taylor's blatant, brazen acceptance of her apology, Parian continued to try and explain herself.

 

“It's been a really stressful week, I mean. It's really hard to stay unaffiliated in this city, but I'm just not interested in all that fighting. The Empire Eighty Eight came looking for me a few months ago and they approached me the same way you did, so I just thought...” The folds of Parian's costume rustled and slid against each other as she shrugged. “I'm sorry.”

 

Something that looked a lot like the last vestiges of Taylor's social anxiety, pushed to the edge, finally kicked over. “If you apologize again, I might actually get angry at you.” She delivered her threat with a smile and playful tone. “I'd be cagey, too, if I were in your position.” She paused for a moment, letting a length of fabric that felt smoother than silk slide through her fingers. “So, um...I don't have a lot of money, but I can probably get you close to a thousand dollars.”

 

Parian had laughed softly at the false threat, the tension _finally_ leaving her shoulders and stance. The resuming of Taylor's original line of questioning seemed to catch her by surprise, though. “What? Oh, right. Um...I'm not sure how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it. I'm not actually a Tinker.”

 

_What?_

 

Taylor found herself feeling poleaxed for the second time that afternoon. It was not a feeling she cared to experience a third time. She licked dry lips and swallowed, feeling a burn of anxiety blooming in her gut that spread up her neck to her face. “But...don't you make costumes for people?”

 

Parian nodded. “Yes. I make high end costumes for people with more money than sense to show off to each other at Halloween parties. I can't...I can't do anything... _super_...with fabric. I can control it, but I can't Tinker with it.” She sighed, her masked face managing to convey sympathy without changing expression. “I wish I could help you.”

 

There was no stopping Taylor's sigh now. It gusted out of her, pushing a curl of her hair that had drifted off course back where it belonged near her chin. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling them sting, and flexed her jaw. Frustration and defeat were familiar to her. Familiar, but _not_ welcome. “Thank you for your time and um...I'm sorry for scaring you.” She opened her eyes, turned around, and started for the exit of the shop.

 

Started, because the door was then literally smashed in. The top half of it hung limply in on its one remaining hinge while the bottom went spinning across the floor to slam loudly into a fabric covered table. On the heels of the admittedly impressive entry were a half dozen men. Their heads were shaved, they were covered in tattoos, and ugly sneers twisted their faces. At the forefront of them, and presumably the one who'd smashed the door in, was an impossibly muscular man in a leotard. His head was shaved and he had an odd, curled mustache.

 

“You.” A finger the size and width of a sausage pointed at Parian. “You come with us. No negotiating. Empire calls you to service. You answer.” His... _invitation..._ was delivered in a deep, rumbling, heavily accented voice.

 

Parian's voice was remarkably steady. “No.”

 

The man's thick neck flexed, face flushing and eyes flashing. His lips curled into a sneer. Delight, rage, and anticipation shone from his face in equal measure. “Then we take you.” Then he turned his face to Taylor. “And we leave no witness.”

 

This, Taylor would look back and decide, was where things got hectic.

 

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

 

There was a period of utter stillness. A fraction of a second in which nobody moved and wound themselves tighter and tighter into tense coils. It was a moment where motes of dust could be seen in the sunlight peering in through the destroyed front door and the windows on the left wall. No one seemed to breathe, or blink, and then...it was over. The room exploded into motion. The mustached man bellowed in joyous rage and charged, seeming more beast than man. Parian responded by dashing for the nearest set of fabric covered tables, slapping her hands on the rolls of cloth and moving on to the next ones. The fabric she'd touched rose into the air and darted at the man, snapping and swirling over and around each other in a hurricane of linen.

 

Taylor, instead of the panic and fear she was expecting, found herself with a mix of anticipation and eagerness rushing through her. She would have delved into the notion that her powers were changing her, but she was otherwise preoccupied by the seven racists doing their level best to kill her and kidnap Parian. This made the priority of actions very clear. Faster than she'd ever moved before, she took a pair of long steps back and whipped her knife out from its sheath, holding it blade pointing down as she had before.

 

The mustachioed muscleman hit the mass of fabric with an audible and tangible fury. He seized lengths of cloth, winding around him like snakes, and tore them to shreds. When Parian sent paper thin whips of silk to score cuts into his skin, he howled. Another, thicker roll of fabric snaked across the floor and bound his legs, sending him spinning to the floor while Parian ran for the back. The man shouted something in German and seized a table leg, snapping it off with a flick of his wrist and spinning it across the room. It tangled Parian's legs and she went down with a cry and the crack of something breaking.

 

Breaths whistled in and out of Taylor at a rapid pace as her eyes darted between the ongoing cape fight and the advancing half dozen toughs. What was she supposed to do? Rather, who was she supposed to attack first? The sight of the man tearing free of the bindings on his legs and rising to stalk towards Parian made up her mind. She reached for her Light and wrapped the blade of her knife in lightning. It snapped into life with a miniature thunderclap that caused the six men to pause. With one last glance at them, Taylor turned and threw herself at the muscleman, knife humming with potent energy.

 

“Ghost!” Her throat was tight, her shout high pitched. “Tell me if they get close! And stay hidden!”

 

“ _ **You got it, Guardian! Kick his ass!**_ ” Her Ghost's voice came from somewhere to the left side of the shop just as she hit her target. It was like hitting a wall with her face. What it also did was draw his attention from Parian, who was scooting backwards towards the office, to her.

 

“You!” His face was red, flushed and cut, and contorted into a hideous sneer. “You should have run!”

 

Taylor didn't bother responding, darting in again, knife leading. He dodged her first wild swings before the very edge of her knife caught him across the shoulder. Like with her dining room table, it cut through his flesh like butter, digging deep past skin and fat into muscle before he threw himself back. The smell of blood filled the air, as did the sizzle of cooking meat. Nausea rolled through Taylor and she staggered. The man stood tall and _screamed_ , so lost in rage he seemed more beast than man. His teeth bared in a bloody snarl, and he charged.

 

This was when a table wrapped in a cloth tarp smashed into his head at great speed. It seemed Parian was still in the fight. The table shattered with dull, muffled cracks and the man went down, sliding back towards his men with the blow's force. Panting, Taylor spun to face them and backed towards the office, knife horizontal in the air. The six men looked from their leader, bloody and still on the ground, to the two girls who had beat the shit out of him with a knife and some fabric samples.

 

“Leave.” Parian's voice wasn't made for snarling, but she pulled an impressive one nonetheless. She was half standing, half leaning on the frame of the office's door. Her mask was lopsided, revealing the dark-skinned curve of her jaw. Her wig had fallen off, showing thick black hair in a tight bun. Spans and spans of fresh linens swirled through the air behind her. Taylor took up a stance next to her, and sliced the knife through the air. It crackled and hissed impressively. “Now.”

 

Taylor made a concentrated effort to slow her breathing. Her head felt light, like she was hyperventilating, and with each deep breath the world became clearer. She could feel her Light coursing through her and drew courage from its strength. She could see the toughs shifting, giving looks to each other and the two opposite them. They were wavering, she could see it. So she decided to give them a push. “You should listen.” She tried to sound as much like someone else as possible. They didn't need to know what she sounded like, too. “I'm not very good with this, and I would hate to hurt you more than I want.”

 

At that, the energy wreathing her knife cracked loudly, sounding like a gunshot. Taylor did her best to hide the jump it startled from her. It probably wouldn't have mattered. They were staring at the knife, and the swirl of fabrics behind and around Parian. Another long moment of silence passed, then the first weapon hit the floor. Once that happened, the rest followed suit, laying down their arms and raising their hands as they backed slowly out of the shop.

 

Once they were gone, having left their leader to Taylor and Parian's tender mercies, the latter ripped off her mask and threw it to the side, sagging heavily on the door frame. Taylor extinguished her knife, noting that it changed some more, and returned it to its sheath. Only then did she realize how much her hands were shaking. “Fuck.” The word came out with a breathy gasp, and she sat down. After some shuffling, Parian joined her.

 

“Yeah.” She leaned her head back against the wall. “Fuck.”

 

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've got nine chapters written so far, and I'll be putting them up every day or so for the next week. After that, expect an update every week or two. Big ups to everyone who bookmarked and dropped a kudo.


	4. Friends, Or Something Like It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Taylor makes a new friend, and begins to repair a thing long broken.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter Four: Friends, Or Something Like It**

 

Taylor discovered, as she was sitting with Parian, that the entire ordeal had occurred over a span of less than five minutes. The source of her discovery was a curiously distant memory of a wall clock on her way out of the shop, and the prompt for it was a curious look around which caused her to spot it once more. Lengths of cloth lay everywhere. Some were torn and frayed, casualties of the muscleman's rage, and others were laying in loose piles from where they'd been dropped their exhausted animator.

 

“Hey.” The woman herself gathered Taylor's attention with a quiet word. She turned to see Parian giving her a look of tired amusement. “You know, most capes would be freaking out right now.”

 

“Oh?” Taylor held Parian's gaze as long as she could before going back to looking out at the world through the destroyed door. “Because of the mask thing?”

 

“Yep.” For all her talk of panic, she didn't look too panicked to Taylor. More like...resigned? Accepting? Something about the way Parian's eyes were warm, dark and tired made it very to read her. “But, you know, if you can't trust someone you beat up a Nazi with, who can you trust?”

 

That was a pretty good question, if lamentably rhetorical. Taylor found herself nodding. The slow dawn of understanding had her finally putting together what the other girl was probing around and held out her left hand. “Hey. I'm Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

 

Parian let out a breathy laugh and clasped Taylor's hand with hers. It wasn't precisely a handshake, but it worked. “Sabah. It's nice to meet you, too.”

 

The two held their joined hands up for a moment before letting it drop to the floor. It was with a curious surprise that Taylor noted that Parian – no, best call her Sabah when she wasn't wearing a mask – didn't seem intent on letting go. It was mostly surprise to find out that Taylor didn't really want to let go either.

 

Time for a confession. “I have no idea what we're supposed to do now.”

 

Sabah smiled, teeth flashing in contrast to her skin. “Me neither, really. No way the PRT or the cops aren't hauling ass over here. Guess we just wait for them.”

 

So they did.

 

=+= Chapter 4: Friends, Or Something Like It =+=

 

The authorities had arrived. A combined force of three Brockton Bay PD squad cars and Armsmaster had arrived, ready for a fight that they had utterly missed. The strange rev-whine of his motorcycle grated on Taylor's ears, making her grateful when it started to wind down. She could hear the heavy impact of his boots on the concrete and the clicking whir of something mechanical operating. “They're here.” It was probably unnecessary of her to say it, but...she did anyway.

 

Sabah – no, wait, Parian, her mask was back on – nodded. She sighed gustily through her nose and heaved herself up, bracing her back against the wall and tugging on Taylor's hand to haul her to her feet. “Yeah. This is gonna be fun.” With something that looked like reluctance, Parian let her go. “We should probably find something to cover your face with.”

 

“I like that idea.” Armsmaster was getting closer. Taylor didn't want her introduction to someone she'd idolized as a child to be a mad scramble for a mask.“More so with every second.” A four foot length of silk rose from an undamaged table near the window and wiggled through the air. She reached out, only to have it dart out of reach. Twice. She glared at Parian, a gesture that was weakened by the smile trying to break free. “You done?”

 

A few seconds passed. Dark eyes glimmered with amusement. Then, a nod. “Yep. Here you go.”

 

The silk wound itself around the lower half of Taylor's face, tucking itself into her collar and letting the remainder hang freely down her back. The process took less than a second, and was very unsettling. “Please,” her voice was slightly muffled by the fabric. “Don't do that again without warning me.”

 

A shadow darkened the door. “No promises.” Parian's response was almost a whisper, her amusement still clear. There was no time to reply, retort, or even get Ghost to retaliate, because Armsmaster's shadow darkened the entrance to the shop and was followed by the man himself.

 

Taylor's first impression? Big. He was tall and broad and packed with muscle. On top of that, he wore a suit of metallic blue power armor that bulked him to the point she was surprised he could get through the door. The top of his face was obscured by a smoothly rounded helm that left his mouth and jaw uncovered. In his left hand he carried a halberd of the same blue metal that comprised his armor. A neatly trimmed beard of golden brown hair completed the image.

 

“Parian.” His voice was deep, serious, and stern. The kind made for giving orders and being heard. “What happened here? Who's that with you?”

 

She was willing to bet he didn't hear Parian take a bracing breath. “Well. It's...like this.”

 

=+= Chapter 4: Friends, Or Something Like It =+=

 

Watching Armsmaster's mouth move in reaction to Parian's explanation was curiously fascinating. Seeing him do a double take at walking past the still form of the muscleman was funny enough, and Taylor was tired enough, for her to have to suppress a giggle fit. It became like a mantra, _don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh_ , and it mostly worked. Luckily, she was able to disguise the escapee as a cough. Both Parian and Armsmaster looked at her, the former showing more concern despite her whole face being hidden. She waved a reassuring hand. “Sorry. Something got stuck in my throat. You were saying?”

 

“We were...” Armsmaster paused, going silent as if checking with someone or something she couldn't see. “done, actually. That's a sufficient explanation of the events here. Before we proceed any further, I'd like express my appreciation of how you two handled this. Nobody died, the property damage was kept to a minimum, and you're both unhurt. I'll be sure to make a note of this in my report.”

 

She felt her cheeks heat and added to her mantra, making it _don't laugh, don't blush, don't laugh, don't blush_. Part of her was thankful that she didn't have any other bad habits otherwise she'd spend more time thinking of things not to do than things to do. Parian dipped her head at the compliment, Taylor following suit when she couldn't think of anything to say.

 

“Is there anything else you needed from us?” Parian's question startled her, having expected Armsmaster to order them to come to PRT headquarters to give a statement or something. Sure, he would have been polite about it, but it wouldn't have been a request. That was how these things were supposed to go, right? Taylor wasn't too sure.

 

Armsmaster shook his head. “No. I've got your statements, and you've both indicated you don't need medical attention. Once we collect Strongman here,” He gestured with his free hand to the downed villain. “we'll be on our way.” There was a brief pause. “Have you decided on a name for yourself?”

 

This question was for Taylor, who'd been furiously debating with herself since last night on the very subject. “No exactly. I'm torn between Hunter and Guardian.” Then, because she couldn't help herself. “Do you have any advice on which to pick?”

 

The older hero shook his head. “I'm afraid choosing names aren't my strong suit. Mine was chosen quite literally from a hat. That being said...I think Guardian sounds more heroic. People will probably be more inclined to trust you if you choose that name. I would, anyway.”

 

There was no stopping Taylor's blush that time. He'd complimented her! Indirectly, and without knowing it, but still! Armsmaster, one of her idols, had liked the name she'd chosen for herself. It was more than liking the name people would know her as. It was as if he approved of what she was at her core. She cleared her throat. “I'll...I'll be sure to keep that in mind, Armsmaster. Thanks.”

 

He dipped his head in a nod. “You're quite welcome.” He then turned on his heel and left the shop, already issuing orders to the radio that had to be integrated into that helmet of his. Parian turned to her with incredulity written on her face. Probably. It was Taylor's best guess, being unable to see it, but something in Parian's body language said she couldn't believe what she'd just seen.

 

“What was that all about?”

 

Taylor shrugged. “I used to wear pajamas with his face on it.”

 

Parian blinked.

=+= Chapter 4: Friends, Or Something Like It =+=

 

“That was the most human I've ever seen Armsmaster act. Ever.” It had been thirty minutes since they left, and Sabah seemed unable to move past this. Even the delicious distractions offered by the Boardwalk cafe Taylor's stomach had demanded they visit hadn't been able to take her mind off Armsmaster's appallingly sociable behavior. For her part, Taylor had found him to be easy to talk to, and put the matter behind her to put the entirety of her focus on the massive cheeseburger she was determined to eat.

 

Sabah had gone for the less gut-busting option of fish tacos, the pansy. She'd dug into the first with gusto, her incredulity taking a backseat to the sudden, ravening hunger that had driven the pair of them to this. Once her appetite had been whetted, she'd been able to put her thoughts back to clearly more important manners.

 

“You make him sound like he's some kind of cyborg.” Taylor's opinion was offered between thick-cut french fries. She'd been leery, to put it lightly, to talk of capely matters when unmasked, when a very obvious solution had been presented. Present the whole thing as if you were a mere bystander, and you could talk about whatever the hell you wanted. “I mean... I'm pretty sure he isn't. Somebody would have noticed by now.”

 

Having remembered there was a taco hanging gamely in her hand, Sabah set about removing this last vestige of her lunch before reaching for the tall, sweating glass of iced tea that had come with the meal. “You say that,” This was followed by a long sip. “but would they? Would they really? You saw him, he only changed direction at ninety degree angles!”

 

Taylor wrinkled her brow. “Why did _you_ notice that? And wasn't that so he could fit through the door?”

 

“Don't weigh my fun down with semantics.” Parian's order was delivered with an airy, regal wave of her hand as she settled back and changed the subject, neatly and blatantly avoiding answering either question. “So what did you think about Parian and that other cape? Did you think they made a good team?”

 

There was a still a lingering sort of weirdness about discussing actions they'd taken not two hours ago as if someone else had performed them. _But hey_ , Taylor dismissed them with a mental shrug, _if it works, it works_. So she took a gulp from her strawberry shake, capped by a generous helping of whipped cream and a cherry, before answering. “Well, Parian kicked ass, no doubt about it. That thing she was doing with the cloth, tying that lunatic up? Very cool. The other cape...she looked like she was just in the right place at the right time, you know?” She shrugged. “They'd have made a better team if that second cape had any idea what she was doing.”

 

Sabah frowned, then nodded. “Maybe. But if she hadn't been there, I'm pretty sure Parian would be dead. Or worse, working for the Empire. She did a good thing, that other cape. No doubt about it. I know _I'd_ be grateful, if I were in her shoes.”

 

A heavy warmth settled in Taylor's chest. She smiled at Sabah, who grinned toothily back before settling into something that looked like pride. Or maybe respect? It was definitely a good smile. She wasn't as good at reading people as she'd like to be, that was certain. “Do you...do you think those two, Parian and um...Guardian, I think...do you think those two were friends?”

 

There was a shrug from Sabah, and her smile turned impish. “Something like that.”

 

Now it was Taylor's turn to grin. A many-toothed thing, it spread across and lit up her face, turning her eyes bright and her whole face sunny. It was all the answer she needed to give. Silence stretched between the two of them for a moment, before she could stop the sheer amount of what was definitely joy racing through her from fogging her brain. Then, “You know, if Parian really wanted to thank her new friend, she could make her a costume.”

 

Sabah waved her hands in front of herself. “Let's not get crazy, here.”

 

Taylor laughed, and retaliated via accurately thrown french fry. Things devolved from there. All in all, it was one of the best lunches she remembered having in a long time. Even if she had to fight a Nazi to get it. Or maybe especially. Whatever.

 

=+= Chapter 4: Friends, Or Something Like It =+=

 

It was closing in on sunset by the time Taylor made it back to her house. A little close to the curfew she and her dad had agreed on – the city wasn't safe and got worse at night – but close enough that she'd get, at worst, a frown and a reminder to get home earlier. So, with the lingering remnants of her lunch with Sabah buoying her mood, a phone number in her pocket, and the extorted promise to use it Taylor entered her house. “I'm home!”

 

Her dad's reply was faint. “I'm in the kitchen!” She ditched her shoes, enjoying the relative freedom of her sock clad feet as she slipped and slid through the living room. She rebounded off the door between rooms and sadly came to a stop when the floor changed from smooth wood to less slippery linoleum. _Huh_. _That's...different_. It wasn't that anything in the kitchen had changed since the last time she did it. Instead it was that someone besides her was doing the cooking.

 

That hadn't happened in a while. To further ping her strangeness sensors the smile he gave her didn't reach his eyes. Well, it did, but not fully. It was the kind of smile he'd worn in the past, where he had something on his mind that he didn't like, but not distracted enough by it to skip welcoming his daughter home. His one-armed hug, on the other hand, was entirely genuine. She basked in the warm solidity of her dad's skinny frame for a moment. “I didn't know you could cook.”

 

He thumped her shoulder in a mildly reprimanding sort of way. “You're a real comedian, Taylor. Don't quit your day job. And yes, I can cook.” The pot on the stove burbled in an agreeable manner. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious, especially to her heightened senses. She didn't get to enjoy it for long, though, because soon alarm was thundering through her. All because of a question. “You wouldn't happen to know anything about why I couldn't find one of our knives earlier? Or why our poor kitchen table has suffered a new injury?”

 

“Um. No?”

 

Her dad sighed, putting the pot to simmer down on the unlit range of the stove top. The wooden spoon went into the sink and he turned to lean on it with arms folded and frown in place. “I'm not blind, you know.” He snorted, a sound devoid of humor. “Well, not _entirely_. It took me a lot longer than I'd like to notice something was happening to you. Every day you'd...shrink. Turn in on yourself and get quieter and quieter. I thought for sure that you'd disappear into those massive sweaters you wore. I didn't know why it was happening until yesterday. Yesterday you talked to me, actually _talked_ to me, for the first time in months. You laughed, you smiled, you even gave me a hug before you went to bed. It was like I had my daughter back.” He paused, smile flitting across his face for a moment, brightening his moment of self-recrimination. “Even if a lot of things have changed, you're still a terrible liar. So something's going on. Something dealing with you.”

 

Taylor licked dry lips. She had a dilemma that wasn't. The question of whether or not to tell her dad what was happening to her hadn't ever really been a question in the first place. She'd always planned to tell him, from the very beginning. However, she'd never thought he'd figure it out – or at leas figure _something_ out – the day after she got her powers. She ducked her head. “Yeah, something.” Her head jerked back up. “Not a boyfriend, or anything! Just...remember I was going to tell you.”

 

Her dad's eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”

 

“Ghost.” Her Ghost flickered into appearance over her left shoulder, cracked frame and all. Despite it having neither face or body, it conveyed its nervousness remarkably well. It trembled slightly and drooped a little, fully prepared to hide behind her at the drop of a hat. She watched surprise flash across her dad's face, followed by confusion and understanding in short order. Still, she had to say it. “Dad. This is Ghost. Well, actually he's _my_ Ghost. I have powers.”

 

=+= Chapter 4: Friends, Or Something Like It =+=

 

 

 

 


	5. Capital G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Danny acts like a parent, Taylor acts like a teenager, and plot intervenes with both of these things.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 5: Capital G**

 

“I can't believe he grounded me.”

 

“ _ **Well, you**_ **did** _ **tell him everything.**_ ”

 

“That's not true! I didn't tell him...um...I didn't tell him about Parian's real name!”

 

“ _ **It's a good thing you didn't, Guardian. I don't think she'd have liked that.**_ ”

 

“Well, I'm grounded. I don't like _that_.”

 

If Taylor was entirely, one hundred percent honest with herself, she was kind of glad her dad had grounded her. She'd had enough of distant, distracted parental figures to last a lifetime. Being grounded for, among other things, getting into a fight with a Nazi, was an interesting way to return to being her dad, but she was very glad he did. Well. Okay. She was happy to have her dad back. Not so much the other thing.

 

A week ago, having to spend the weekend in the house would have been more reward than punishment. That was before Ghost, before becoming a Guardian, and before she met Sabah. It rankled. Which was the point, or so she gathered. This idea was reinforced not a moment later by her Ghost. “ _ **I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to**_.” It chirped and bobbed in the air, panels rotating in a motion resembling a Rubik's cube. “ _ **It wouldn't be a punishment if you enjoyed it.**_ ”

 

“I know.” She was grousing, and she knew it. The Hunter in her was getting itchy again. Becoming more familiar with that part of her made it easier to see the signs. Tapping fingers, drumming feet. Feeling stifled and hot in a room that didn't have fresh air was new, but she was able to alleviate it with an open window. The air blowing in was cool and tinged faintly with the scent of ocean.

 

Her keen ears picked up the sounds of her dad moving around downstairs. The muffled shuffle of papers told her he was reading something. He'd been angry, after she'd told him. Angry, and scared. Scared for her, of the things happening to her, of what _could_ happen to her in the future. Idly, she wondered if being grounded was more about keeping her where he knew she'd be safe than about punishment or some object lesson.

 

The sound of papers hitting table brought her from her musings, and she could hear her dad walk towards the stairs. He stopped at the bottom. “Taylor? Can we talk for a minute?”

 

“Sure thing, Dad!” She had to shout to be heard, having forgotten to open her door before responding. As she left, her Ghost played a funeral march. She stopped in the door to glare. “That is not funny.”

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

It turned out that the papers she'd heard were a printout of the official PRT website, Wards section. It detailed the benefits and duties a member of the junior superhero team might expect were they to join up with the local chapter. It was made to sound a lot like a scout troop, if Taylor were honest with herself. The positives were played up, the negatives glossed over, and parents were reassured that their children would _not_ be sent into battle with villainous capes in any way whatsoever.

 

Both she and her dad had a good snicker at that. It turned into a giggle fit for her when the TV in the living room reported that the Wards team had heroically fended off an armored car robbery led by Circus. Once she got herself under control, she saw her dad giving her an expectant look. “Well?”

 

One last laugh escaped her before she finally sobered and noticed he was looking very serious indeed. She gave the papers another look, flipping through them quickly before setting them down. “I don't know, Dad. I...it _looks_ good.”

 

“I hear a 'but' coming.”

 

Prompted, she did just that. “But I'm not sure.”

 

“What's not to be sure about?” He wasn't cajoling her, trying to prod her towards making a decision. He was asking. She frowned, and looked down at the papers, tapping a thoughtful index finger.

 

“Not sure about that, either.” Her eyes were drawn to a picture of the Wards. The full team in uniform, posing on a helipad in the bright, noonday sunshine. They were all smiles and open, friendly body language. Mostly. Clockblocker, for all of his jokes and stupid name, looked tired, and even though her face was covered Shadow Stalker was looking at the camera with obvious wariness.

 

Her dad made a frustrated noise. “You gotta give me _something_ to go on, Taylor. Is it the team? Is it the hours? Is it the costumes? What's bugging you?”

 

Taylor growled, a quiet and frustrated sound. “I don't _know_. I'm not telling you because I don't want to, you know! It's like some kind of...instinct. Oh.”

 

Across the table, her dad perked up. “Oh? Are we coming to some kind of understanding over there?”

 

She nodded. “I think so. I gotta ask Ghost something, first.” She turned around in her chair. “Hey, Ghost!”

 

A blur of movement from the living room, and her Ghost came to a stop over the kitchen table. “ _ **You rang, Guardian?**_ ”

 

“About Hunters.” She would have appreciated the reference on a day she wasn't feeling so... _itchy_. “They're a pretty independent bunch, yeah?”

 

Clicks followed her question, and a sound that she took to mean that her Ghost was thinking, or searching the data it had on Guardians like her. “ _ **I'd say they're known for it, yes.**_ ”

 

“Well, then.” She sat back and waved a hand between her dad and her Ghost. “There you have it.”

 

Her dad worked the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “That...isn't actually an answer, Taylor.”

 

Hadn't she explained? She could have sworn she'd... “Did I not tell you about being a Hunter?”

 

“No. Well, maybe. There was a lot to process. Tell your old man again?”

 

She took a breath, and let it out. “Well, it's like this.”

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

Against all odds, the explanation helped. Once she'd laid things out again, explained the new instincts being a Guardian and Hunter had woken in her, her dad had become more sympathetic to her plight. This didn't mean she wasn't grounded anymore, sadly, but it did mean he was willing to let her sit on the idea of joining the Wards for now. At least until she could make up her mind, or had her mind made up for her by circumstance. Not long after they'd reached this accord the house phone had rung, bearing news of some Union related disaster that required her dad's supervision.

 

This left her to her own devices once again. For a few seconds she sat at the kitchen table, listening to her dad's voice retreating into his office muttering instructions all the while. It seemed that Lou was not to be allowed within ten feet of any heavy machinery, he was still on medical leave and medication. She left her dad to the people wrangling and headed out back. The sun was well on its way to its noontime zenith, casting warm light to offset the cool breeze coming in off the Bay.

 

She breathed in, deeply, holding it. She let it out, feeling it take the edge off some of her anxiety. Her house didn't have much of a backyard, a twenty by twenty foot square fenced in with wooden planks going green with mold and age. A swing set, far too small for her now, sat in the center. By contrast to the fence, it still seemed sturdy and solid. The little plastic seat had cracked and faded over the years, and the links had rusted together. If she were to try and move it, the shriek that would follow might be considered cruelty to all dogs in hearing range. She wouldn't appreciate it, that was for certain.

 

What had brought her out here was something she remembered doing the day before. During the fight with Strongman she'd used her knife with some amount of ability. That she'd used it with _any_ ability at all was what had surprised her, when her thoughts had settled long enough for her to think about it. She hadn't been in any fights before. Never pulled a knife on anyone. Yesterday was the first time she'd done both of those things. She sat in the grass, feeling their dew dampen her jeans. A few threads of grass were sacrificed to her fidgeting fingers.

 

Was she a bad person for not feeling worse? She'd hurt Strongman. Hurt him badly, and was more than prepared to carry out the threat she'd delivered to his henchmen. That was a level of violence she hadn't been capable of before becoming a Guardian. It was a level of violence that she knew – _knew_ – she could reach again. It was the same certainty that she had towards wreathing her knife in lightning. The same certainty she had about the Light coursing through her.

 

That...she didn't know how to feel about that. Luckily, she had somewhere to turn, and ask. “Hey, Ghost? Can I ask you something?”

 

A series of mechanical clicks came from the air in front of her nose. It was followed by her Ghost becoming visible in a ripple of visible light. “ _ **Anything, Guardian.**_ ”

 

Taylor took a deep breath, and asked.

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

She'd made a mug of tea and had sat down with it, steam curling elegant fingers over the lip of the ceramic mug, when there came a knock at the door. During her conversation with her Ghost, it seemed that the Lou Situation had escalated quite badly and needed her dad's personal interference. This left her without human company at present, and she was not in the right frame of mind to enjoy the quiet rumblings of her gradually settling house. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Taylor took a last, regretful look at her tea and set it aside to become tepid and unpleasant upon her return to it.

 

The door swung inwards to reveal Sabah. She had her long, dark hair in a braid and a serious, disturbed expression on her face. Her outfit was impeccably chosen, yet somehow gave the impression of a person who'd dressed in a hurry. In her hands she was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. Attached to them was a card about the size of an index card, with neatly printed writing covering it back and front. “We need to talk.” With that, she brushed past Taylor into the house, setting the bouquet down on the kitchen table with undue force.

 

“Let yourself in, why don't you.” She may have been grumbling, but she was actually glad to see Sabah. Being alone with nothing but her thoughts and her Ghost hadn't been _bad_ , per se, but...she'd found herself thinking up a frenzy of worry and anxiety, and that was something she tried to avoid doing, as a rule. She gestured at the bouquet on the table. “What's that?”

 

“ _That_ ” Sabah eyed the bouquet with open revulsion, leaning on the stove with her arms folded defensively, as if the arrangement of flowers were about to leap at her and attack at any moment. “is an apology bouquet. I found it in the shop this morning when I went to get some paperwork.”

 

Taylor nodded. “That's...kind of weird. And creepy. Who sent it?”

 

“The Empire.”

 

A double take wasn't sufficient. There weren't enough takes in existence to reach a state of mind where that made sense. She blinked, took the card offered to her and read it by rote. It was apparently from Kaiser himself, apologizing for the 'unauthorized actions of one of his less sane subordinates' and that she mustn't 'take one man's actions as the actions of an organization'. It ended with him expressing his wishes she wasn't seriously harmed, and what was certainly a stamped signature. Which was weird.

 

Taylor found herself with only one thing to say. “What the fuck?”

 

Beside her, Sabah nodded sagely, and with commiseration. “Yep.”

 

“I mean, what the _fuck_?”

 

“Yyyep.”

 

Taylor immediately resolved to set the thing on fire. Sabah vetoed it, so they threw it away after shredding it into tiny pieces. It didn't make the weird go away, but it did make it easier to handle.

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

There was a strangeness, Taylor decided, around having a friend in her room. After all, it had been a long time indeed since anyone had come over, so being a bit out of practice wasn't out of the question. Luckily, they had something to talk about. Rather, for Sabah to vent about the experience of finding it by herself and for Taylor to nod understandingly at the appropriate time. She'd had her own moment downstairs and had been exposed to the bouquet for far less time than Sabah.

 

It was a short-lived firestorm of complaints. Tearing the thing to shreds had been enough close, catharsis, and plain fun to make both of them feel at ease. At least it had for her. Judging from the way Sabah had thrown herself spread eagle onto her bed, face planting loudly into Taylor's pillows, she was pretty over it as well. Still face down in the pillows, she mumbled something. Taylor's hearing, keen as it was now, couldn't pick it out. “What'd you just say?”

 

Sabah, choosing not to move, instead shouted loud enough to be understood. “I wanna make you a costume!”

 

“But...” Taylor found herself frowning. “you said you didn't do that. And can you at least sit up? You're very hard to understand.”

 

With some grumbling, her friend did just that, bouncing around afterward to find the best way to sit. Once she'd fixed her shirt, which had somehow gotten twisted about during her gymnastics, Sabah addressed the question. “ _Weeell_... I don't. Normally. But I kinda starting thinking about it after I got home last night. Did some sketches. It wouldn't be armored or anything, but you're fast enough that you could probably get away with leathers, or something.”

 

Eyebrows going the opposite direction of where they'd previously resided, Taylor found herself wondering something. She knew the levels of speed she was capable of. She and her Ghost had been over her new capabilities, as well as the levels she could reach given enough training. That, at least, was something she understood. But...”You'd do that? Make me a costume, I mean.”

 

Sabah blinked a few times, a sure indicator of her puzzlement. “Well, yeah. We're friends, right? Plus, we beat up Crazy Mustache Nazi together. That alone would put you in my good books.”

 

Taylor...was feeling a number of things, all at once. Top of the list was recrimination, directed at herself. Hadn't she just yesterday confirmed that she and Sabah were friends? Hadn't she, Taylor, once been the best of friends with someone else, and had done things for that person for the joy of seeing them smile or laugh? Surely, this was the same thing. It was a rule: friends did nice things for each other. Then there was pleasure. She was, frankly, pleased as punch with the offer. And with the way things had gone over the last few days, more or less.

 

Following on the heels of that was doubt. It was small and minor and prickly, but it was present. Did she deserve, or even want the costume, and all that came with it? Maybe. Maybe not. But she was itching for a cloak, and here was someone offering her one. She'd figure out the rest later. Speaking of which. “These...um...these sketches of yours. Did any of them have cloaks?”

 

Sabah frowned in thought, then nodded. “Some of them. One or two, I think. Why? Is that important?”

 

The speed at which Taylor's head moved up and down was too fast to call it a nod. It, and the happy sounds coming from her could be taken as a sign of agreement. They were certainly meant as such. With some effort, she got herself under control, face burning, and cleared her throat. “Yes. _Very_.”

 

“All right, then.” Sabah found herself trying to contain her own amusement. Glittering eyes and a widening smile meant she was failing. “I left my bag downstairs. Let me go get it and we can get cracking!”

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

Introducing her dad to Sabah had gone much better after pizza was brought into it. Something about the round, cheesy deliciousness eased the curious tension in the room and that, coupled with Sabah's usual gregariousness, soon brought the kitchen table to a relaxed, amiable place. Of course, it hadn't taken her dad long to figure out that Sabah occasionally answered to a different name, and it hadn't taken her long to figure out that he'd figured it out. That, more than anything, was probably the source of the earlier tension. It was gone now, and all were gladder for it, in Taylor's opinion. Because of this, the conversation moved towards her new-found extracurricular activities after the first round of pizza had been devoured.

 

Most of the conversation was between Sabah and her dad. She was more than happy to let them steer. There was still that part of her that was wary of talking to people. Quieter now than it once was, it still made itself heard. So she was content, at least for now, to let her dad quiz Sabah on whatever concerns he could dredge up from the depths of his parental worries. The first was perhaps the most obvious, though he hadn't started there. “How badly can you or Taylor get hurt out there?”

 

“Not very badly,” Sabah reached for her drink, taking a sip and musing for a moment. “Me because I stay out of the fighting as a rule, and Taylor because she's a badass.” Taylor didn't have to look to know her dad was frowning. At the language or the implications, she wasn't sure. “No, really, Mr. Hebert. I'd bet money that she ends her first fight without a scratch on her.”

 

She glowed inside, happy at the compliment and the confidence her friend so brazenly displayed. Rare was the person who could be called a badass and be unhappy about it, and Taylor was not one of these few. Her dad wanted to know, “What makes you say that?”

 

“Because she's _fast_.” The reply came, flatly delivered and emphatic. Taylor perked up from drowsily letting the food settle. She'd heard Sabah say this before, and it caught her attention each time. “During that fight she went from zero to kicking ass in no time.” That wasn't... _exactly_...how Taylor remembered it going down, but let it slide. Things had happened rather quickly, after all. “That guy was pretty strong and very crazy and we took him _down_. Power of teamwork, and all that.”

 

She watched her dad digest this information about his daughter. His eyes would flicker from her to Sabah and back as his eyebrows slowly traveled lower. A silence fell on the three of them, contemplative and tinged with anticipation. For what, she couldn't say. It felt like she was waiting for her dad to approve of her going out to be a hero. It felt like waiting. She didn't like waiting, not as a rule. A moment longer, and he nodded decisively. “Okay.”

 

Taylor found herself blinking. “What?”

 

He shrugged. “Okay. I understand. My daughter has a new hobby, met a friend through it, and they hang out when they're not doing that. At least, that's what I'll tell people who ask.” He leaned forward, bracing elbows on table and looking very serious all of a sudden. “I don't, really. I'm not sure what to do, here. Are you going to ask me for my approval to go out and risk your health and safety for people who might end up hating you? I don't think I can do that. I don't think any parent could.” he sat back, folded his arms, and sighed. “that being said, I can tell you want to do this, Taylor. So I want a promise from you, from each of you. Look out for each other, don't hit outside your weight class, and _don't.._.don't do anything stupid. Got it?”

 

Taylor and Sabah shared a look, a nod, and two words said in unison. “Got it.”

 

=+= Chapter 5: Capital G =+=

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have anything to say about this chapter, except that it takes two of my least favorite Worm fic cliches and introduces them to the light of reason. Or something. I don't know.


	6. Opening Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a series of brutal fistfights, book-ended by conversation.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 6: Opening Night**

 

Taylor was as prepared as she could have been for her first outing as a hero. Actually, it was her second outing, but this was for all intents and purposes the first. She actually had a plan this time beyond 'stay alive' and equipment and everything. Her knife, as always, rode at the small of her back. She had a turtleneck sweater and coal gray jeans that were a little tighter than she'd have liked, but Sabah had insisted. Taylor had managed to scrounge some pads to cover her arms and legs with to serve as armor. Her face she covered with a scarf that wrapped around her neck and draped down her back.

 

She thought it looked pretty cool. She was alone in this. Sabah had called the whole thing ramshackle and tacky and had redoubled her efforts to finish Taylor's costume. Her dad had elected to hold his peace, but Taylor had the sneaking and not unfounded suspicion that he wouldn't be happy with her costume being anything other than a massive fortress-tank, or something. He'd also insisted on some form of communication between the three of them, even if it _was_ just her and her Ghost out there. Sabah had, after her brief foray into combat, found that she was onto something with the whole 'staying-out-of-it' thing. Taylor didn't blame her.

 

“Ghost.” Her voice was muffled by the thin, warm fabric of her scarf. Hopefully to the point that it would help disguise her and not make it sound like she had a head cold. At the moment, she was perched on a bench by a bus stop that no longer had a bus to service it. Given the darkness of her hair and the fact of the broken lights overhead, she was almost invisible so long as she didn't move and kept to a whisper. “Got anything for me?”

 

Her Ghost, following the mandates laid out earlier to stay invisible where possible, didn't reveal itself. It was also a curious thing to hear something without vocal cords try to whisper. Her Ghost was strangely capable of it, though, sounding as if it were whispering into her ear. “ _ **Nothing yet, Guardian. It seems we chose a slow night for your...debut.**_ ”

 

Taylor winced, sure to hear something over her radio, only to remember that she'd turned it off after hearing one too many fighter pilot impersonations. It seemed her newest friend and father were comedians when you put a radio in their hand. For Sabah, it made sense. Her dad, on the other hand...it seemed a little out of character. Until Taylor hit on the idea of him keeping her calm by joking around. _Then_ it made sense. “You'd think a city like this would have _something_ we could interfere with.” A pause to consider her word choice. “I mean...you know what I mean.”

 

  
“ _ **Afraid I don't, Guardian.**_ ” Strangely, her Ghost didn't sound too sympathetic. How curious. Then, “ _ **Got it. There's a holdup of a convenience store on Wheeler by a quartet of people described in a way that says, among other things, Merchants. Police are on site and gunfire has been exchanged. What do you say, Guardian? Ready for some thrilling heroics?**_ ”

 

“Sounds like we're starting off small,” Taylor sighed, reaching for her radio and switching it on. “Dad will be thrilled, I'm sure.” She raised it to her mouth and cued it. “Base, this is Guardian, we _finally_ found something. A convenience store robbery on Wheeler. We're going for it.”

 

“ _Thank_ God _, finally! Something happens._ ” Sabah's patience had run out an hour ago, it seemed. “ _Oh yeah. Um..Guardian, this is base, we hear you. Good hunting, and all that._ ”

 

Taylor found a lupine grin curling her lips. “It always is, Base. Guardian out.” The radio disappeared into a pocket, and not long after, she disappeared into the night. Those Merchants wouldn't know what hit them.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

Taylor crouched on a fire escape partway up the apartment building across the street from her target. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the scene before her, something not quite sitting right with her. She couldn't... _quite_...place it, but there _was_ something there. Not wrong, precisely, but not expected or maybe not what it looked like. So she had her Ghost scan the building to try and put a picture to what she felt. So to speak. What she found wasn't something to celebrate. Well, she was glad she caught it before she walked headlong into it, but apart from that she was displeased overall.

 

Mush was there. As were four other Merchants the original report hadn't accounted for. What's more, given the sheer amount of cash and wrapped bundles in the storeroom and the Asian characters printed on the sign above an English translation, this convenience store had a second, less legal purpose. Stereotyping? Yes. Vaguely racist? Probably. This _was_ Brockton Bay. Whatever the purpose, be it as a money laundering operation or simply a place to store it, this building belong to the ABB. Which made the Merchants' act of robbing it problematic at best. That aside, she didn't see a clear way into the store that didn't involve the front door.

 

Then again, she was the same Taylor Hebert who had snuck out of an overpopulated high school in broad daylight. If she wanted into that building, and she did, then she'd find a way. If it were to exist, it would probably look like a back window, no more than two foot across and a foot-and-a-half high, that was stuck alone and forlorn on the store's back wall. With a bit of wiggling, she could make that work. Her chronic beanpole syndrome would work in her favor here. So that was her in. Now she needed a plan. She had information and a canny, wily nature. It'd be cake. Or was that her instincts talking?

 

Bah. Before she could stop herself, Taylor rolled over the fire escape's railing – put in place to prevent this exact thing – and dropped the fifteen feet to the pavement. She landed without a sound, going into a crouch to disperse the momentum and feeling the impact of landing run up her legs. Her scarf fluttered down over her face, and she pushed it back where it belonged. She blinked, and looked up at her previous perch. It looked a _long_ way up. Was what she'd done a Hunter thing, or a Guardian thing? It wasn't something most people could pull off. Not without getting hurt, anyway.

 

Food for thought and also inappropriate to dwell on at present, so she put it in the back of her mind for later and confronted her next obstacle: the half dozen police cars parked end-to-end in a U in front of the store. Well, them, and the two dozen armed policemen taking cover behind engine blocks. Nobody was shooting, thankfully, but that didn't mean lead couldn't start flying at any time. Since she didn't intend to John Wayne her way out of this situation, though it was...oddly appealing...staying out of the lines of fire would be best. The long way it would be.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

The interior of the store stank. It really, really, _really_ , stank. Like dead, briny fish, mold, and the bottom of a decades old dumpster. Eau de Mush, she supposed, easing the window closed behind her. It had stuck a little on her way in, but whatever was blocking it the first time hadn't been a problem in closing. It shut smoothly and with nary a sound. Taylor was in. Her throat was dry, her heart pumping, and her eyes darting all over, taking in everything she could see. She breathed in, taking in the Merchant cape's special perfume, and eased free her knife. The weight of it – however light – in her hand eased her. Brought her down and honed the keen edge of her mind.

 

Time to interfere, she thought with a touch of humor. She'd start with the thugs. Or, if Mush crossed her path, the cape. Her plan was flexible, and centered around three main tenets. First, don't get killed. Second, never attack someone you can't surprise. Third, _don't get killed_. It was simple, slightly redundant, and easily adapted. Taylor was proud of it. Kinda. The room whose window she'd co-opted looked to be a janitor's closet. The lights were out, but there was enough coming in, from both moon and streetlight, to provide enough for her to see.

 

The door into the rest of the store was closed, and probably locked. Taylor stepped, quiet as a cat on the prowl, and paused with her hand curled around the metal doorknob. Her sense of smell was shot, Mush doing it in without ever seeing her, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. They told her that there were two people outside this door, and that one of them was Mush himself. They were arguing. Or maybe debating. Their voices were slurred and tinged with either irritation or anger. One side of the discussion was in favor of 'findin' a way out through tha back' while the other favored 'leavin' the fucking place through the front fuckin' door'.

 

Taylor took a long, slow breath in. Then she let it out, silent, through her nose. The men were moving, coming her way. Her grip tightened on her knife as they came and passed, and it was the second man was moving past her that she acted. Slowly she turned the handle, praying to whatever god listened it was unlocked and well-oiled, and found her prayer answered as the door swung open without a sound. The room beyond was bright and decorated by a scattering of cheap furniture. A break room. Across it was another door, leading into a larger, brighter space with huge bricks of money and what had to be drugs. This room was the one Mush and the other had just left. It was the room she left for a less dangerous time. There were eight men in this store to deal with, first.

 

Speaking of...

 

She dropped into a crouch and padded after Mush and the other. It was honestly difficult to tell who was the cape, so covered in trash and filthy clothing were they. It didn't really matter. What _did_ was that one was trailing the other, and they were heading towards the front of the store. Where four more thugs were. Thugs with guns. She couldn't let them make it. She had to hit them fast and hard and as quiet as humanly – or should that be Guardian-ly – possible. She closed in, closing her nose to the stench wafting off them, and punched the hilt of her knife into the back of the trailing thug's skull. Hard. Too hard. Instead of dropping to the floor or turning to face her he flew forward into the second, sending both the ground in a heap of swearing and boneless limbs. She _had_ to stop underestimating her strength.

 

She didn't want to kill these thugs, or seriously injure them, but they _were_ criminals and they _would_ try to kill her. The knife twirled around in her hand, blade flashing in the light, to face the second man just as he struggled out from under his unconscious companion. His eyes widened when he saw her, then narrowed in rage. An unsteady rise to his feet would have followed, had she allowed it. She was on him, straddling his chest and swiping the keen edge across his hand as it rose to aim something dark and metal at her. He dropped it with a shout, the clatter loud, and she punched him in the face with her free hand. His head cracked off the tile floor, a sickening and loud sound, and his eyes crossed. She popped him again to put him out.

 

Which was when the door to her right slammed open, accompanied by a renewed burst of gunfire from the front of the shop. Two more thugs stood in the recently opened door, arms full of cash. Taylor yelped and threw herself forward, tackling them back into the office before they could react. This was turning out to be one _hell_ of an opening night, and there was a part of her, a vicious, bright-edge part of her that wanted to smile.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

Taylor and the first guy hit the office floor hard enough to rattle the light fixtures. She rolled forward off him, rising straight into a straight punch from the second, who she hadn't quite managed to knock over. His kneeling position did little to diminish his strength. Knuckles cracked into her cheekbone, dragged harshly down her cheek and across her jaw. The blow – and the pain – sent her back on her ass. The first thug swore, breath going out in a rush of air as she landed back on him. She dropped her elbow into his chest and launched herself back up at the second. He swore, rising and dropping back a step. A rusty switchblade flicked out of a grungy jeans pocket.

 

The sight sent electricity rushing through her, igniting her blade in a crackle and rush of light. His eyes widened, blue light washing out his face and displaying the utter filth he was caked in. They then narrowed, lip curling into a snarl. With more dexterity than she'd give credit to a drugged up thug for, he flipped his knife to hold it like her and rushed forward. He meant to overwhelm her, use the fact that he was larger than she to bear her to the ground and...well, it didn't bear thinking of. If she tried to meet his charge she'd fail or take another injury, and she meant to avoid that, knowing she would catch enough hell for the one she had. So she dodged. Darted, more like. Bounced off the wall as the thug lumbered past and charged his broad, open back.

 

That hidden, bright-edged part of her wanted to sink her burning blade into his flesh. To see the ash that her knife would make him drift to the ground before turning it on the first. It took an actual effort to restrain herself to jumping on his back, digging her heels into his hips, and using her entire body to throw the pair of them into the wall. This, for the record, didn't feel great. Better than being stabbed, so her only complaint was a grunt. He threw a wild elbow back to try and dislodge her, she twitched her head to the side and looped her arm through his elbow.

 

This became the time the first, winded thug made his reappearance. His opener was to peel her off his compatriot and throw her bodily into the manager's desk. It broke beneath her, splinters flying every which way as she hit the ground _hard_ yet again. She was starting to become irritated by this, and it might have colored her next action. Instead of charging back into fighting the pair of them, she somersaulted forward, putting her knife right in line with the back of the first thug's knee. She hamstrung him, knife cutting through clothing and flesh with sizzling ease.

 

He howled, high and loud, dropping to a knee just in time to catch the handle of her knife to his jaw. Another loud crack, and he was out. The second swore again, vulgarity spilling from chapped, cracked lips as he charged her knife first. She dodged a few swings, waiting until he overextended to drop three of her strongest punches into his stomach, chest, and forehead. This third caused something to give in one of her knuckles, pain radiating up her wrist and causing her to grit her teeth. But she wasn't done. She grabbed him by the head and slammed it into the wall. He slid boneless to the floor, leaving her the only conscious person in the back of the store.

 

She appreciated the reprieve. This heroics business was no joke.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

Now came the dangerous part. Now came the part where she had to go up against four men. Four men armed with guns, and who were alert and ready for fighting. Her two saving graces were her speed and the fact they were looking for an attack from the front. They wouldn't see her coming. It was an advantage she couldn't afford to waste. Another mark in her favor was that, thanks to her Ghost, she knew exactly where they were. Two at the door were trading shots with police officers. A third had taken cover in the shelves a few feet back from them and was wrestling with a large, misshapen rifle-looking thing that had Tinker written all over it. The fourth was closest to her, rifling through the register and stuffing the meager cash offerings into his pants.

 

She knew where they were. The question of how to proceed weighed on her. She didn't want to get shot. She _really_ didn't want that, nor did she want any of the officers outside to get hurt. Her Ghost had reported that no injuries had been suffered by the boys in blue, but both knew it was only a matter of time. Her breath came in gasps, chest heaving as she tried to restore some air to her aching lungs. Apparently, she'd forgotten to breathe during that last fight. Wouldn't do that again.

 

The door into the front of the store was back out of the office and down the hall. If she went that way, she'd be seen by the fourth thug and he would alert his friends. She was fast, both Sabah and tonight had taught her that, but she wasn't fast enough to take him out before he could bring attention to her. Not without killing him. She wouldn't do that. So unless she could walk through walls... _Hang on._ “Ghost, how thick is this wall?” she tapped the blade of her knife against the barrier. It pinged gently.

 

Her Ghost chirped and made itself visible, a beam emitting from its center and impacting the wall to no effect. Something like a sensor, she guessed. Or maybe a really high tech version of one of those laser levels she saw at a Home Depot. “ _ **Two and a half inches, Guardian. Mostly wallboard and paint. Even your normal knife could cut through it without much trouble.**_ ”

 

She raised the blade in question, igniting it and feeling the rush of lightning through her veins. “Glad you see where I'm going with this.”

 

“ _ **Great minds, as the saying goes.**_ ” Her Ghost vanished again, leaving behind little motes of light that faded after a moment. “ _ **Go get 'em, Guardian!**_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

Carving a door through a plaster wall was probably the most property damage the poor shop had incurred thus far. She'd have to find a way to make up for it. It worked, though. Better than she'd expected. The section of wall she cut away dissolved into ash before fading away entirely, leaving her with an entry into the front of the shop. In front of her was a waist-high counter, wood and false stone. A cash register, tray open, stood on the counter directly in front of her. Between her and it was yet another Merchant, stuffing fistfuls of crumpled bills directly into his pants. Beyond the counter she could see flashes of movement punctuated by gunfire as the three remaining thugs traded fire with the police.

 

She ached. One of her fingers was probably broken. Her back and hip were without question bruised to all hell. Her jaw ached, her cheek stung, and a bone-deep weariness was setting in. By all accounts she should be ready to end it. To finish the job, go home, and sleep for the rest of 2011. This wasn't the case. Her nerves thrummed, her fingers twitched, and her heart pounded in her chest. Her lips were curling up at the corners, a fierce and joyous grin threatening to break free at any moment. She was enjoying herself. Immensely. Which was..weird. It was also something to think about when she wasn't less than six feet from men with firearms. This was, she reflected as she readied herself, becoming something of a theme.

 

_Okay, these guys have guns. Don't dither, Taylor._

 

With that sound self-advice, she pounced. If she was fast before, she had to be faster than fast now. Move it or lose it. So she moved, kicking the back of the register thug's left knee. It punched into, and through, the thin and flimsy plywood shelving that comprised the lower part of the counter. He dropped, arms flailing, and as he did she pulled a repeat of what had worked earlier and grabbed his head to guide it none-too-gently to the floor. Twice. And then there were three. She rose to peer above the counter, exposing as little of her head as she could. Her luck was holding, they hadn't heard.

 

That wouldn't last. She had to find a way to get over the counter and take the three of them out without getting shot by them or an errant police-sent bullet. Maybe if she went all the way down the far wall before vaulting into the forest of shelves and shell casings she could use the two thugs over there to keep the third one from using his gun. She took a few deep breaths. That...that could work. Her knife hand was starting to ache, and it was only then did she realize that she'd been white-knuckle clenching it this whole time. Did she give her hand a break, and put it away? Or did she wager her knife against their guns?

 

The latter. Definitely the latter.

 

Her steps as she crouch walked down to the end of the counter fell heavier than they had in the back rooms. It had been quieter there – not by much, but still – so she had a bit more freedom here. Before long her shoulder hit the joint between counter and wall and she paused. “Okay...okay.” Her words were murmured to herself. “Let's do this.”

 

As with the fire escape not twenty minutes ago, she rolled over the counter before she could stop herself. Unlike the fire escape, she hit the ground running.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

The first part of her plan went perfectly. She was on top of the two thugs before they knew she was there, punching and cutting at their gun hands as much as possible to keep them from being brought to bear on her tender, not-at-all bulletproof skin. The third, across the aisle from them, spotted her out of the corner of his eye and shot her theory to hell. He did this by shooting one of his fellow Merchants in the gut. Blood sprayed from the exit wound as he fell, splashing hot and thick against her pants. There was a moment of stillness between her, the thug close to her, and the third. Smoke curled from the barrel of the gun. Then she _moved_. She punched the nearby gunman in the nuts close to as hard as she could. His scream was high pitched and, like his curl into a ball, entirely by instinct.

 

She didn't know how long he'd be down. It'd be long enough. Instead of charging straight ahead – _like a dumbass –_ she sprinted for the front of the shop, putting as many shelves between her and the trigger happy final Merchant as she could. Not to run, but to circle around. From outside came muffled shouts to cease fire as the blur of her running form passed behind the long-shattered front windows. She spared a moment before she slid around the corner to thank them for not immediately assuming the worst of her. Two shelving units before she reached the thug her knife ignited. This, in hindsight, may have given her away.

 

Rounding the corner into the barrel of a gun wasn't a thing she planned on experiencing. Her shoes squeaked as she slid to a stop and she took in the twitch in his eyes and hands, the racing pulse in his neck, and the sweat beading on his brow and neck. If she moved, he'd shoot. In the sudden silence, she could hear his whispered swearing. “Fuck. Fuck me, you – you ghosted fuckin' everyone and we didn't even notice! You some kind of demon or some shit?! What the f–”. He blinked sweat from his eyes. It was enough to trigger the instinct she'd been running on all night.

 

In the time it took for him to close and open his eye she had closed in. Her knife flashed, energy crackling along its length, cutting through skin, muscle, tendon and bone with the same ease it had that wall. His hand turned to ash as the gun fell to the floor. She pushed past, using one shoulder to push his arm away as she drove the other into his sternum, tackling him to the floor and leaving her sitting on his gut. His eyes were wide, panicked, bloodshot. She held the plain steel of her blade to his throat, having extinguished its lightning edge between the removal of his hand and the fall. Then she made him a promise. “You move and you're dead.”

 

That was how the police found them not a minute later when they stormed the place.

 

=+= Chapter 6: Opening Night =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of plot or dialogue in this chapter, but plenty of action. In fact, almost entirely action.


	7. A Mild Mush Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So someone who took massive amounts of drugs and regularly fought superheroes didn't go down as easily as Taylor hoped. Who knew?

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 7: A Mild Mush Chase**

 

After swearing up and down to the police that she wasn't a villain, murderer, or any combination thereof the mood got a lot less tense. By that, Taylor meant they weren't pointing their guns in her general direction. This pleased her, and the police were pleased in turn to have their hunch about her proven right. Since everyone was such good friends, she got to have a conversation with the officer in charge about what went down. It took almost as long to describe everything that she'd done as it did to actually make it happen. The fact that she'd tried very hard indeed not to kill anyone, or even seriously hurt them, seemed to win her some points with the officers as they herded the seven thugs into various backseats.

 

Wait. Seven? “There should be eight.”

 

The officer she'd been speaking to – a short, compact man with the squarest jaw she'd ever seen, looked up from his notepad. “Yes?”

 

She pointed back at the store. It looked a little under the weather, with broken windows and bullet holes and an impromptu door made by...someone. “I took out eight Merchants. Seven normal guys, and Mush. It smelled like him, anyway.”

 

He fixed her with eyes entirely too perceptive for a police force as reputedly apathetic as Brockton Bay's. “You're certain.”

 

She shrugged. “As much as I can be. He didn't get a chance to use his power, so it _might_ not have been him.”

 

His jaw worked, and he held up a finger in the unofficial sign language gesture for _one minute, please_. A quick conversation was carried out over radio that had the tendons in Officer Square Jaw's neck flexing. “Something tore a huge fuc – er, _freaking_ hole in the back of the store. There's a trail of garbage leading to a nearby storm drain.” He clipped his radio back onto his vest. “That something Mush is capable of?”

 

Her only recourse was to shrug again. “I don't know. I'm sort of...new to the scene.”

 

Square Jaw's thick eyebrows rose, then he whistled, high to low. “Hell of a first night, kid.”

 

She huffed a laugh, both more tired and awake than she'd ever been. It was a strange, heavy sensation, one only made worse by the fact she'd have to go home with a huge bruise on her face and a busted knuckle. To distract herself, she wondered. “What are you going to do about Mush?”

 

A calloused hand thumped against a Kevlar vest. “Me? Nothing. I turn it over to whichever PRT cape that got the late shift and they take it from there. Hey, you need a doctor to look at you? That's some shiner you got going.”

 

The skin around her eye felt thick and hot and she knew it would be tender to the touch. She did it anyway, and hissed a breath out through her nose. Curiously, even as the blunt edge of pain was dragging itself across her skin she could feel the swelling going down. Her Light healed her, too? Was there anything it couldn't do? She made a mental note to go over the finer details with Ghost later, tomorrow or something, as she shook her head. “I'm tougher than I look, officer. I'll be fine. Is there anything else you need?”

 

Square Jaw gave her a look that seemed to agree with her statement. The head-to-toe he gave her was assessing, taking in the tears in her shirt, the scuffs on her pads, the splash of blood on her pants, and the knife at her back. He shook his head. “Nah, go get some sleep, kid.”

 

“I plan on it.” After she let her dad and Sabah fuss over her for an hour or three. If they were still awake. Once Square Jaw was looking away, she faded into an alley to make her way home. She wasn't far enough to miss his parting words, though.

 

“Tougher than she looks? That's something right there. That is something.”

 

=+= Chapter 7: A Mild Mush Chase =+=

 

Taylor was wrong. It wasn't her dad _and_ Sabah who fussed over her in the strangely bright light over the kitchen table. It was just Sabah. Her dad had, around the time she was sliding in the shop's back window, succumbed to sleep. Taylor could still see him, if she leaned way back in her seat. His head tilted back, mouth hanging open, glasses in his shirt pocket and snoring the night away. She'd wake him up when she could finally convince Sabah that the blood wasn't hers and she hadn't been stabbed, cut, or shot.

 

“You _were_ punched, though!” This was delivered as if it made the fact that Sabah was dabbing at her bruise with a cotton pad soaked in hydrogen peroxide any less pointless. From above, her now visible Ghost made the metallic chirp that heralded some sort of input.

 

“ _ **She was also thrown through a desk.**_ ”

 

Taylor managed to not roll her eyes, but it was a very near thing. “Thanks for that, Ghost. She'll calm down now.”

 

“I _am_ calm!” Something broke through the veneer Sabah had been so careful to maintain. It was momentary and hidden in the flash of emotion in her dark eyes and a tremor in her hand as she reached for Taylor's gloved hand, peeling it off and hissing at the angry, purple skin around her right ring finger. “I'm calm. I'm very, very calm.”

 

Taylor's heart hurt. She reached out to cover Sabah's hand with her free one and wrap her fingers around the other girl's. The squeeze she got was briefly strong, then relaxed. “I'm fine.” What could she say to reassure her friend? “On the way back I had a talk with Ghost. Turns out I've got some regeneration on top of everything else. I'll be back to normal in the morning.”

 

Sabah's lips twitched and her eyes flickered between their joined hands and Taylor's Ghost bobbing merrily about in the air above the stove. “You were never normal, Taylor. This is just further proof.” She blew out a breath, gave Taylor's hands a final pat, and stood. “Okay, so...I don't really know what we're supposed to do now.”

 

Taylor lifted a hand. “I'm in favor of a shower. Then sleeping until I'm physically incapable of it.”

 

“No, although those are good ideas. I really like the second one.” Sabah did a circuit of the Hebert household's tiny kitchen. “What I meant was, like, with your patrols and stuff.”

 

“Do you want me to write a report? I'm not really seeing what you're getting at.”

 

Taylor watched Sabah come back to flop in the chair across from her, skidding a half-inch across the linoleum. “Me neither. I guess it's more...anticlimactic than I was expecting, this whole thing.”

 

Eyebrows rose. Her dad snorted in his sleep, loud enough to wake himself. Momentarily. “If you got bored, you're welcome to come with me next time.”

 

It didn't take Sabah two seconds to snap her reply. “No. Definitely not. I am not going kung fu fighting with you. Besides me not wanting to like, at all, I _do_ have a business to run.” she checked her watch. “Which opens in four hours. Shit. I need to get home. You gonna be okay without me?”

 

“Maybe.” Taylor smiled at Sabah's exaggerated huff. She walked her to the door and got a very tight hug, then watched her vanish into the night. Fatigue hit like a sledgehammer. Bed time. As she trudged upstairs, herding her half-awake dad in front of her, she thought that there was going to be a lot of tea in her future if she kept this heroing business up. Did it come in pallets?

 

=+= Chapter 7: A Mild Mush Chase =+=

 

The sheer amount of joy she took in sleeping until noon was indescribable. She was a bookworm of no small talent, and the daughter of a college professor beside, and as far as she was concerned there did not exist a word in any language to fully explain how she felt. Sprawled beneath her thick comforter, limbs contorted comfortably, head buried under her pillow, she grumbled as the sun managed to sneak a ray of light through a gap in her curtains. She lay there, breathing deep and slow through her nose, as she gradually woke up. As she did so the sounds of the house came to her lamentably keen ears. The news droned on about the fight at the convenience store while her dad hummed something to himself as he moved around the kitchen. Eggs sizzled, the coffeepot burbled and bubbled, and it was basically the soundtrack of a morning.

 

A happy, pleasured whine escaped her as she stretched, luxuriating in the slight burn of her arms and legs as they started moving again. Her neck popped and her pillow slid off the bed, landing with a quiet thump on her bedroom floor. “Alright.” Her voice was hoarse, and her throat hurt. “I'm up.”

 

“ _ **I'll let the world know, Guardian.**_ ” Her Ghost's voice came from somewhere by her desk. She didn't bother looking before waving a hand in that general direction and grunting. “ _ **I'll tell them that, too.**_ ”

 

“Funny.” Words hurt. Oddly enough, her body did not. She'd gone to bed last night with ugly bruises on her eye, the left side of her ribs, and her fist. This morning, they were all gone and in their place was dry-mouth and a sore throat. Which was odd, considering she probably wasn't coming down with something. Or maybe she was. It'd be oddly like her to get a cold or something after her first night on patrol. She stumbled into her bathroom for her morning routine and came out fully awake. Because she was feeling shy or because she wanted to mess with it, she made her Ghost wait outside her room while she dressed. Her neck felt oddly naked without her scarf. Her back felt light without her knife.

 

Out in the hall she saw her Ghost bobbing from frame to frame, examining the pictures the Hebert's had deemed worthy of immortalizing on a wall. There were a bunch of her parents; a wedding photo, a carnival, that kind of thing. Thankfully Taylor managed to keep the baby pictures in albums by way of extensive negotiation and a carefully executed temper tantrum when she was ten. “You have any idea why my throat is so sore?” She massaged it as she asked, trying to soothe the aching tissue within.

 

“ _ **You snored.**_ ” Her Ghost didn't even turn around. In turn, she didn't even consider it. “ _ **Loudly.**_ ”

 

“I don't snore!”

 

A sound like a chainsaw-wielding maniac attacking a pile of mulch emerged from her Ghost. Along with some mumbling that, while the content would forever remain a mystery, was definitely her. “ _ **I'm sorry, Guardian, but you very much snore. I'm pretty sure it woke your dad up.**_ ”

 

She grumbled wordlessly, then followed the smell of scrambled eggs to the kitchen, having more or less conceded the point. It was very hard to argue with evidence like that. Not that she wouldn't confirm it with a third party source. Okay, fine. She was going to ask her dad the minute she was done eating everything put in front of her. And some of her dad's bacon.

 

=+= Chapter 7: A Mild Mush Chase =+=

 

It was a Taylor who had eaten entirely too much food that folded herself into the living room couch. Fishing the remote from underneath one of the cushions and flicking it to the news, she settled in for a food coma that would probably last until dinner. Or until her dad reminded her she had homework. The newsreader was a new one, some elaborately coiffed optimist with orange skin who droned his way through what he clearly saw as a slow news day. He also had something stuck to his teeth, a piece of spinach or something, and it was almost fascinating to consider how exactly that got through the screening process before the broadcast started. Did he sneak a salad under his desk and wolf it down during a commercial break? Why was she thinking about this at all? Maybe because it was opine about salad sneakers or ponder why, exactly, she'd just let Mush go.

 

Realistically, it made sense. Mush, as grungy and ill-regarded as he was, had years more experience in the cape scene than she did. He knew his limits, when to push them, and when to back away. He wouldn't have lasted this long if he didn't. So while he wasn't a major player, he at least knew of them and their favorite moves. She didn't. Despite her research, which her encounter with Sabah had proven to be _slightly_ unreliable, there was a lot she didn't know. Without armor, without any real training, or any way to safely and non-lethally remove people from the fight, she'd only had two things going for her last night: surprise and being underestimated. Had she gone after him, she would have done so without both. It made sense.

 

But she still felt guilty about it. Mush was a criminal. Someone who, by definition, was a terrible person. So he laid low, flew beneath the radar, what-the-fuck-ever. There were plenty of bad things he could do and not draw lots of attention to himself. The Docks were the Merchants' territory, inasmuch as they _had_ territory, and it was more or less a black hole. A person could vanish into there, and never come back. Or worse, they could come back changed. A drugged out shell of themselves, consigned to a short life of addiction, withdrawal, fear, and debt. Maybe Mush wasn't involved in that. Probably, he was.

 

She was drawn from her train of thought by the Breaking News sound alert blaring from the TV set. The reader had somehow managed to get the spinach off his teeth, and was looking more human than robot now that he actually had some news to report. “We're getting news that, right now, there is an altercation between capes at the intersection of Lord Street and Lombardo. We repeat, that is Lord and Lombardo. Citizens are being urged to avoid that area until the conflict is resolved. We're going to cut now to our helicopter camera to give you a live picture of what's going on.”

 

What was going on was a piece of the universe out to prank her. She had spoken of the devil – thought of him, but splitting hairs wasn't her – and he had appeared. At the intersection of Lord Street and Lombardo, less than a mile from the Docks, Mush had made a reappearance. A staggering, disjointed, oddly floppy reappearance, but there he was. Street debris flowed around him in a miniature hurricane, acting as both shield and armor as he gathered the bigger pieces to turn himself into some kind of junk robot. It would be going a lot smoother for him, if there weren't two members of the Protectorate doing their level best to bring him down. Well, _one_ member of the Protectorate. The other was a Ward, but they were part of the organization too.

 

Kid Win was taking potshots from his hoverboard with his energy pistols, doing poorly enough with them to make Taylor's professional pride hurt. She'd never even shot a gun before and she was pretty sure she could do better than that. He was staying well out of the line of fire, which was more than could be said for the Protectorate hero below. With lightning lance a-flashing, Dauntless charged Mush head-on, battering through the wet newspaper hurricane with his shield. The lightning that came from his lance didn't look quite right to her, or maybe it was missing something. Something her own knife's blade had. Regardless, it did a good enough job to get the hero close enough to engage Mush in hand-to-hand combat. Things ended pretty quickly after that.

 

Mush was down, in cuffs, and Kid Win did a victory lap of the air above the intersection. All in all, it wasn't a bad showing for the local hero team. Quick, efficient, and apart from some singed asphalt, no property damage. This was the kind of clip that would be making the rounds for _years_ as every good image was milked from it for one reason or another. There was something about it that bothered her, though. If what she'd thought about Mush earlier was true, then why was he found so easily and then went down without much of a fight? She voiced the thought to her Ghost, who'd had been right there with her the whole time.

 

A chirrup later, and she had her answer. “ _ **Someone**_ **did** _ **punch him really hard in the head not too long ago. Concussions are nasty business. Or so I'm led to believe. I don't actually**_ **have** _ **a head to experience it myself.**_ ”

 

So she'd helped bring down a villain a few hours before it actually happened. Huh.

 

=+= Chapter 7: A Mild Mush Chase =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like keeping events connected. Taylor beating Mush's face in concussed him, which, while he was able to escape her, made it easier for him to be caught later. Expect me to do this as often as I can.


	8. Learn to Throw a Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Taylor realizes that instinct - as good as it is - can only serve her so far.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch**

 

Today was the third day since being made a Guardian. Sunday. Two days since she made her debut, and not yet one day since she had intentionally sought out conflict. Three days in which a good many things had changed, or perhaps that went without saying. Perhaps it was _because_ so many things had changed that this had slipped through the net. Or perhaps it was something else; some sort of deliberate misdirection on her Ghost or father's part, because she couldn't fathom a reason that she'd gone three days without noticing she hadn't been wearing glasses. She'd only been wearing them for close to ten years, after all.

 

She sounded ungrateful, even to herself, and that couldn't be further from the truth. It wasn't that she'd exactly minded wearing them. That being said, she wouldn't miss them, and even took a sort of glee in relegating the dark, square frames to the very back of the bottom desk drawer. She closed it with a certain finality and did a happy little spin on her office chair, turning it into three on account of misjudging her own strength. Which, now that she thought about it, was something she couldn't keep doing. Through instinct, some integral part of being a Guardian, or blind luck she'd been able to muddle through the fight at the convenience store without killing anyone. She hurt, maimed, and seriously injured, but killed? No.

 

Looking back, a lot of her fights had been longer and more painful for all parties involved because she'd either held back too much or had a very small idea of what she was doing. According to her Ghost, being made a Guardian came with certain instincts and innate skills. In a way, being a Hunter dictated how those skills and instincts came to the fore. It accounted for her newfound speed and skill in stealth, not to mention her knife and everything related to it. By all measurements, that was a good start, but she needed – no, _wanted –_ more. She wanted to become more skilled. She wanted to know how to fight, how to shoot, how to Hunt. To get what she wanted, she would need to find something. A teacher, a trainer, a master, sifu, sensei, whatever they chose to call themselves, she needed one.

 

In this age, the marvels of technology meant that finding one would be relatively easy. Finding a _good_ one, on the other hand, probably wouldn't be. Either way, she needed to borrow her dad's computer. Outdated and chunky as it was, it had held up well over the years and would more than serve in her search. She sat up from her slump as an idea occurred to her. One that meant she wouldn't have to pester her dad while he worked. “Hey, Ghost. I need to ask you something.”

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

The sign out front claimed the place was John's, and it looked nothing like she'd expected. Weren't places like this supposed to have a wall of floor to ceiling windows to draw the eye of people walking past? This place didn't have that, instead having a cheap, if clean whitewashed exterior wall and exactly four windows. They didn't look all that different than the one she'd slipped through the night before. The front door was solid wood, with metal strips screwed into it and a repeat of the sign's claim of ownership. In short, it didn't look like the sort of place that the best trainer in the city called home. Her Ghost hadn't steered her wrong thus far, so...She took a deep breath, ignored the slight tension in her shoulders, and made her way inside.

 

Inside continued to violate her expectations. No mirrors, very little equipment, and no weirdly bouncy floor to practice on. The room was a wide, wooden-floored square arrangement. A heavy bag hung in one corner, black and battered and mended with X's of electrical tape. There was a clear plastic box across the room from that, in which lay a variety of gloves and pads that smelled old and worn to her nose. The floor itself was scuffed and sanded smooth, lacking polish or varnish or wax. It was exactly as it appeared to be; a floor in which someone taught how to fight.

 

“You need something?” The voice came from behind her, and sounded like rocks sliding against each other. Her heart jumped and she spun around, hair whipping in front of her face and she very carefully did _not_ reach for her knife. Her first thought was that no man that large should be able to sneak up on anyone. He was _huge,_ well over six feet, with a face hewn from stone and dark, tired eyes. Black hair tinted with gray hung around his face, and he was so wide and packed with muscle it made Armsmaster look tiny. This, she supposed, was John.

 

“Um. Yes.” After hearing how meek she sounded, she made an effort to put some spine back into her voice. Whether or not it worked was for the birds. “I was hoping you could teach me to fight.”

 

John grunted. He gave her a slow, assessing once over from tip to toe, spending an extra second near her middle, before grunting again. She got the impression he didn't talk much. “Why?”

 

She coughed. She couldn't help it. He was huge and quiet and intimidating in a way that Strongman hadn't been. The mad German had been tall and muscled, true, and insane to boot, but John had a _presence_ that Strongman had lacked. “Because I want to.”

 

His jaw worked. He sniffed, snorted, then walked out the center of the floor. “Better reason than most have, I guess. Let's see what you got, then I'll see if I can help you.”

 

She took a slow, deep breath, and stepped out onto the floor. He was on her almost immediately.

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

This. This was the reason she had wanted training. John had, from the very beginning, outclassed her. She had supernatural strength, speed, reflexes, and a wickedly sharp knife and it had done her no good whatsoever. Well, maybe _some_ good, but from where she was slumped in a folding chair, holding a hand to her chest and panting like an excitable dog, it didn't seem like much. What she had just gone through had rather neatly illustrated the difference between instinct and training. Between a Merchant and an Empire member. Between her and many of the people she'd be putting herself up against. The sound of rusted metal squeaking and a solid thud preluded John's sitting across from her. By contrast, he didn't look winded. He rumbled his question that sounded more like a statement. “You're a parahuman.”

 

She ran her tongue over her teeth and suppressed the well of panic. She hadn't tried to hide it, exactly, and was doing so more because it was expected of her than any inability to protect her and hers, but it still provoked a reaction. Took a long moment to decide how, or if, to respond. “Not...exactly.”

 

He shrugged. “Wouldn't be the first to come looking for help. More'n likely won't be the last.” He paused, and flexed the muscles in his jaw while a contemplative look – as far as she could tell – passed across his face. “Think I can help you. Teach you what you want to know. 'Fore you say yes, I got two rules. First, don't hold back. Makes a bad habit. Second, and most important, is that whatever you do with what I teach, make sure it's for something good. There's enough shit in this world without you adding to it. Sound good?”

 

Taylor nodded. “Sounds good.” Then, because she'd watched too many movies and couldn't help herself. “Do I call you sensei?”

 

Something that could, with the right light and circumstance, be called a smile flitted across John's face. “John'll do, I think. Or sir, if you insist. Now get, I gotta think about your training. Be back here day after tomorrow, 1300 hours.” He stood, picking up the chair in one hand and kneeing it closed. She made to get the one she'd been using, but he waved her away. “I'll get it.”

 

She insisted. “You're going to teach me to fight. The least I can do is help out a little.”

 

He grumbled, but let her follow him to the supply room and put the chairs away. She left with an ache in her chest, sweat sticking in her hair, and the notion that this might not have been a terrible idea after all.

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

She got a very strange look from her dad when she got home. It might have something to do with how she had left, in the middle of a cold-ish spring day, with a jacket and without a sweaty face and came back with the inverse. She just smiled at him and said hello, going into the kitchen to find something to satisfy a sudden fruit craving that had become self-aware about a block from the house. From the living room drifted her dad's question. “So how'd it go? With the trainer, I mean.”

 

An orange called to her craving, so she snatched it from the fridge and made her way back to the living room, dropping onto the couch hard enough to bounce a few times. This jostled the fan of paperwork her dad had spread across his lap and the adjacent cushion, and earned her a not-at-all pleased look. She winced, projecting sheepishness from every feature. “Sorry. It went well, I think. I'm not real sure, he didn't talk much, but he did tell me to come back day after tomorrow, so that's...something.”

 

“And the reason you're all sweaty is...?”

 

Taylor offered a disingenuous, “I got hot?”, which didn't go over at all. In fact, based on the slowly rising eyebrow her dad was displaying, it might have even made things worse. “Okay, well, that wasn't a lie. The trainer...wanted to know if he could teach me. So we sparred. And I lost handily.”

 

Her dad chewed on his pen in a contemplative manner, a nasty habit she had tried to break him of and failed for years. “You think he might be a parahuman?”

 

Orange rind got stuck in her fingernails as she peeled the skin away. “No, but he knows I am. More or less.”

 

The pen fell out of his mouth. “You're awfully calm about that.”

 

She waved a piece of orange in a demonstrative manner. “It's not like I'd have been able to hide it! Not easily, and I certainly wouldn't have been able to learn anything of value if I did! So yeah, more or less I'm okay with it.”

 

Her dad held up a finger, as if about to make a point, then let it fall. “I could make a thing out of this, but I was up until three this morning waiting for you to get back and woke up at six because _someone_ was sawing logs like it was her job. So instead I'm going to trust that my brilliant, beautiful daughter knows what she's doing. Even if she's sweaty and gross.”

 

Taylor rolled her eyes, feeling annoyed and pleased at his statement. It was nice to be trusted. Really, really nice. But she could have gone without the teasing. So she got back at him by giving him a big, tight hug and making sure to rub her forehead on his shirt. He grumbled and threatened bodily harm, disowning, and beatings – the usual – but made no real effort to stop her.

 

Even so, he had a point, so after she finished her orange she disposed of the rind and went to luxuriate in one of the modern world's greatest inventions. The shower.

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

There wasn't much time left in the day, and that was something to be grateful for. She had packed as much into the past day than most people did in three, and frankly, she was ready for a night off. She held out hope, but was expecting something to do as it usually did and make her tentative plans go away. Was it Murpy's Law that covered that particular quirk of the universe, or some other one? So many of them were knocking around and describing so many different situations that she had given up trying to keep them straight. Since she couldn't, it was Murphy and his Law that might keep her from a good night's sleep.

 

Her dad had an armchair. Every dad had one, or so she believed, and they were all fiercely protective of them. It would, she mused, be an effective and low-key test of her Hunter skills to snag it. Her clothes weren't suitable for stealth, or armchair thievery, but she would triumph over this obstacle and prevail. She paused just above the last step down into the living room, which squeaked occassionally, and let the sounds of her dad's evening routine drift through the air. The TV, thankfully not displaying the news, went on about a period in history so far back as to have very few concrete facts about it. Paper rustled as he turned a page in a book, and he stifled a cough. It wouldn't be long now, and he would get up to get something to drink, and then...she would steal his chair.

 

She waited, patient and still, for the perfect moment.

 

Now!

 

Quick and quiet as a cat, she padded across the living room and sank into the chair with painstaking slowness. In the kitchen, she heard liquid splashing into a glass and the fridge opening and closing. Milk, then, or perhaps a beer. Regardless, victory was hers. Comfort was sweeter when it was stolen. She put on her most innocent expression as he came back into the room. “Taylor. You're in my chair.”

 

“It's comfy.”

 

He hummed his agreement. “That's why I bought it. For me to use.”

 

“Didn't you tell me that sharing was important? Every day for six years of my life?”

 

A nod. “I did. And since I'm not a hypocrite, I'm gonna share my chair with you.”

 

Then he sat on her. Daniel Hebert sat on his daughter. She shrieked and flailed, adding to the image the two created of a strange turtle on its back, while he calmly watched television and sipped his drink. Then there was a sound that made them both stop, coming from the air above the coffee table. It was a sound neither of them had ever heard before. It was synthetic, burred, and pleasant to hear. It was the sound, Taylor realized, of her Ghost laughing itself silly.

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

“Sabah came by earlier.” Her dad had finally released her from her punishment and let her relocate to the couch, where she had sprawled out across its length. The odd glare she had sent his way every few seconds slid off his back like they never existed. His expression was that of deep interest in his book and an equally deep smug. Pleased with himself was closer to the truth, but Taylor wasn't in the most charitable of moods. Being sat on does that to a person.

 

It was why she grunted instead of saying anything. She wasn't sulking. The outside observer could be forgiven for thinking she was, though. It wouldn't last much longer, she was already getting tired of it, but she intended for it to last as long as she could manage.

 

“She dropped something off for you, said it was a sketch of what your costume is probably going to look like. She also said that you could sew it your-damn-self if you had any complaints.”

 

Just like that, her bad mood was gone. Excitement shot through her, and she vaulted the back of the couch to skid, sock-footed, into the kitchen, following the direction of her dad's pointed finger. There on the counter was a folded, slightly crumpled piece of drawing paper – the thick, creamy kind that came from an expensive sketchbook. It still had the remains of the eyelets, where the wire would have gone, dangling from one side. She snatched it up and unfolded it, devouring the image within with eager eyes.

 

Her first thought? Sabah had a gift for drawing. Her immediate following thought was that she didn't look anything like how she was represented on the paper. The boots were long, covering her from foot to knee, and lightly armored from the top of her foot up. The pants wouldn't look out of place at a horse park, tight and clinging to her legs in a way she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. Her chest piece resembled a Kevlar vest, and underneath was a turtleneck that covered her from neck to wrist, with a hole for her thumbs to keep the sleeves from riding up. From elbow to mid-finger on each hand was a smooth gauntlet, for some reason leaving the tips of her fingers exposed. A bandanna would serve the purpose her scarf did now. Tinted aviator goggles, or something close to that, would hide her eyes when she so chose.

 

All of that was second, of course, to the fact that Sabah had not forgotten the most important part. The cloak. Its neck was tucked into her chest armor, with a deep hood curving over her head and letting her hair spill out around it. The rest of it fell behind her, dropping to swirl around the tops of her ankles. It looked... “It's perfect.” It wasn't _quite_ an awed whisper, but it was close. The rippling sound of her Ghost becoming visible had her showing off the sketch. “What do you think?”

 

Her Ghost hummed, moving to see it from different angles. Taylor found herself waiting for approval or, and she would admit to herself to fearing, disapproval. Agonizing only to her, seconds dragged out. Then, “ _ **Sabah does good work, Guardian. I suggest we don't tell her that. The gloating might be unbearable.**_ ”

 

Warmth flooded through her, followed closely by the idea that maybe the little droid was onto something. She may have only known Sabah for a couple of days, but some things were obvious.

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

The phone rang. Taylor groaned. She most emphatically did not want anything else to crop up today. There was a limit, a _limit_ , people, and she was very close indeed to reaching it. There was no telling what would happen if she did, but the highest odds were on pillow forts, ear plugs, and ice cream. It wouldn't be pretty to anyone bearing witness, she herself would have a wild time. It was sort of odd, how she was already fed up with the wacky circumstances of hero work despite this being her first day. If memory served, it had been her idea in the first place to go out and look for trouble in the first place. That being said, it remained her right to be inconsistent, and right now she was fed up.

 

From her place on the living room couch, in her comfiest baggy T-shirt and pajama pants, she couldn't see her dad coming her way, phone in hand, but she could hear him. Her hand snaked over the back of the couch to point. “No. No. I'm not here, or – or I'm dead, or on the Moon. Whoever's calling –”

 

“Sabah.” Her dad thought he was being helpful by ignoring her and dropping the handset onto her stomach. A breath of air whuffed out at the impact, and she scrambled to snatch it up before the hold tone could start blaring. She found the button and brought it up just in time to catch the first atonal reminder right in her ear.

 

“Gah!”

 

“ _Hello to you, too, sunshine. How was your day?_ ” Sabah sounded tired, the kind of bone-deep weariness that came primarily from a hard day's work and not from running a clothing store. Or so Taylor thought, but perhaps she was being uncharitable. “ _Let me tell you, mine was great. Up 'til three, then up at seven, running a shop all day, it was just...just the greatest._ ”

 

“I liked your drawing.” Taylor offered this up in the hopes of cutting off the diatribe before it could really get going. Sabah hummed happily into her ears, a little sound of celebration.

 

“ _You did? Oh, I knew it. I knew it! It's a rough concept, I know, it doesn't even have color choices, for God's sake, but the basics are there and... I'm really glad you like it.”_ There was a pause, and a slurping sound. “ _Ahh. So, seriously, you do anything nice and relaxing after your busy morning?_ ”

 

Taylor didn't answer. This seemed to be answer enough, for the next thing she heard was a resigned sigh.

 

“ _Taylor..._ ”

 

The need to defend herself had driven her voice up a tad. “What? I was going to relax, then I had an idea, and...well, I have a trainer now, at least.” She paused. “Well, I _think_ he's going to be my trainer. I'm supposed to go back day after tomorrow and know for sure.” Silence. Longer than she'd ever heard from her new friend. “Sabah? You there?”

 

“ _Do you have the news on?_ ”

 

All kinds of things were wrong with Sabah's tone. Tight, too even, too calm. Weariness gone, amusement gone. It caused her to sit up and fish for the remote even as the question fell from her lips. “Should I?”

 

“ _Yeah._ ” A low rush of static as Sabah gusted out a breath. “ _Yeah, I think you should._ ”

 

Taylor didn't respond directly, found the remote jammed in between two seat cushions, and learned that the last channel either she or her dad had watched was the news. It was the second helicopter-based coverage of a cape event she'd seen that day. The camera showed the ruins of a transport van on the inner-city highway. Scorch marks riddled the road, thick and wide and smoking. Impact craters were everywhere; in the road, the surrounding buildings, the grassy little hill that served as a median. The shattered remnants of a half-dozen other cars were spread around the place, around which stepped members of the PRT and the BBPD.

 

There was a voiceover announcer, different from the orange man this morning, speaking with a practiced calm. “...that's right, an unprecedented show of force from the Archer's Bridge Merchants. Not ten minutes ago a group of men numbering between fifteen and thirty five, supported by the parahumans Skidmark and Squealer, attacked the Protectorate van carrying Mush to a more secure prison facility. No casualties have been reported, though there were a large number of injuries incurred. The parahuman known as Mush has escaped.”

 

The announcer continued on, speculating and fudging facts to create a more interesting story, but Taylor was rather focused on the storm brewing inside her. Light boiled within, responding to the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Sabah, she supposed, had probably expected this to scare her, or warn her. The knowledge that someone she had worked very hard indeed to capture had gotten away, and now in all likelihood bore a grudge, probably _should_ have scared her. It did not. She was blindingly, incandescently, apocalyptically furious.

 

“ _Taylor, you seeing this?_ ”

 

It was her turn to have a voice too calm and flat to be anything but worrisome. “I am.”

 

“ _We gonna do something?_ ”

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

=+= Chapter 8: Learn to Throw a Punch =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter8yay


	9. Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not thinking about, or remembering, the onset of something means nothing. It will happen, regardless of whether you're ready or not. She isn't, but she has to be.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 9: Out of Time**

 

Less than a day. That had to be some kind of record. During her initial research frenzy Taylor had come across hints of what seemed like a kind of conspiracy of ineptness. In cities like hers, the heroes didn't try very hard to keep the lower key villains locked up. Instead of jail time, arrest was treated more like being tagged in a game of capture the flag; temporary at best. She hadn't given the idea much consideration, seeing as the internet's credibility wavered around 'spotty', but it was looking like that was one of the things that was absolutely correct. While useful, knowing did nothing for the blind fury slowly tightening a fist around her gut.

 

She had wanted to go after them immediately. Wanted it so badly she could almost taste it. Even without the Hunter in her _screaming_ to go out and put that smelly bastard right back where he belonged, and be damned to hell anyone that got in her way, she felt a strong sensation of failure. She had failed to capture Mush. The solace she had taken from his capture had more or less soothed the sense of failure from letting him get away. His escape, or his being broken out, had taken that from her. She'd been riding a pretty good emotional train since her Ghost found her, and she didn't much care for this little bump in the tracks. She'd been dressed in her scratched, scuffed armor, scarf around her nose, knife at her back, and almost out the door when her dad had stopped her cold.

 

It had been a year and a half since she'd had any real parenting from him. The shock of it was enough to jar her from the more blinding heat of her anger. It had cooled enough to let her remember how tired she was, enough for her to realize that going after Mush without information, alone, and under-equipped was tantamount to abject stupidity. Something Taylor tried to avoid, as a rule. Now, laying atop her bedsheets, no longer so intent on sleeping, her mind had been given all new things to chew on. “Hey, Ghost?”

 

“ _ **Guardian?**_ ”

 

Her mouth worked as she tried to put her thoughts in order and failed. “...never mind. It's nothing.”

 

Her Ghost chirped, whirred, and passed a low orbit over her bed. It came to a halt in the air by her nightstand. “ _ **You can talk to me, you know, even if you don't**_ **think** _ **it's important. I'll always listen, and be more than happy to tell you if you're right.**_ ”

 

“Even if I don't know what's bothering me?”

 

Her Ghost bobbed up and down in the air, something approximating an emphatic nod. “ _ **Even if. But I think you've got a pretty good idea.**_ ”

 

“I feel like I failed.” Her words rushed out, forced, applying the same principle to her confession as one to tearing off a Band-Aid. “Like I should have been good enough to keep Mush from escaping in the first place. None of this would have happened if I'd been...better.”

 

“ _ **I wouldn't say that.**_ ”

 

She growled lightly as a moment of resentful frustration lanced through her. “Then how would you put it?”

 

Another low-altitude orbit over her bed, putting her Ghost by her desk. “ _ **As a damn good start. You took out eight armed men without serious injury on either side, by yourself without them ever noticing. Mush went down without ever knowing who knocked him out. That's got to be bothering him quite a bit. He doesn't**_ **know** _ **, Guardian, who beat him, and that's the only thing worse than knowing.**_ ” It wiggled from side to side, as if shrugging. “ _ **It'd bother me, I know that much.**_ ”

 

Taylor hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah.” Then something occurred to her, and it brought a smile to her face. “I mean, imagining the look on his face when he figures out he got beat by a ninety pound girl helps more, but...”

 

“ _ **I wish I'd thought of that. Well, his days as a free man are numbered, Guardian, starting when you wake up tomorrow.**_ ”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going, I'm going.”

 

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

New day, new plan, this being the fouth since her Guardianship began. She hadn't slept well last night, which she had expected. She _had_ slept, which was a nice benefit, and she hadn't dreamed, but for one reason or another she'd found herself waking every hour or so with a gasp and reaching for her knife. What this meant was that while shadows hung below her eyes, they were not as dark or deep as they could have been. Something of a blessing, she supposed, stumbling into her morning routine. Bathed, clothed, and of clean teeth she made her way downstairs to pilfer her dad's office for a form of Hunting that most did not consider.

 

What she intended to do, her grand plan, was to delve through all available information – and some that was slightly less than available – to find out exactly where the Merchants had gone to ground. Then...well, she'd probably end up calling Armsmaster and telling him. They'd met before, and her actions yesterday morning had most likely reached him by now, so she was guessing that she had some amount of credibility with the local establishment of heroes. If she could do this; track and find the Merchants before they could scatter once more, it might be possible to take the entirety of the gang's base of power in one, surgical strike. She had to snort at that, an almost-laugh at her own audacity. Less than a week, and she was shooting higher than most independents ever tried.

 

She found a covered plate on the stove, with a Post-It attached to the napkin. It turned out her dad had been called in early again and that she had better eat this food before heading of to school. School...shit. That this was, in fact, a school day had escaped her entirely. “Ghost, why didn't you tell me today was Monday?”

 

“ _ **I thought you knew. I may be versatile, Guardian, but I refuse on principle to become a day planner.**_ ” A perfectly reasonable, if somewhat sassy answer, but something about the way it was said tugged at her. Monday was important, to both of them, for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with systemized education, or whatever it was that she got at Winslow. But what was it?

 

_Monday, Monday, Monday..._ why did it stick so? What was it about this day, of all days? Granted, school was a chore, and she'd rather not, but it wouldn't cause her stomach to sour as it was. It wasn't school, and it wasn't anything to do with her status as a Guardian because –

 

...Ah.

 

Of course.

 

How could she have forgotten? The better question, perhaps, was where had the time gone? So much had gone into four days that it seemed almost a lifetime ago that she was falling ass-first out of a filth-filled locker. That didn't matter, either, because _this_...this had nothing to do with her. Nothing at all. It was Monday, the day that her Ghost had given her those long days ago as its last.

 

“ _ **Guardian?**_ ” Her eyes stung, Ghost's concern clear and a wound on her fragile heart. She squeezed them close and breathed a short, harsh breath in through her nose, shaking her head to the inevitable follow-up query of, “ _ **Are you all right?**_ ”

 

Her voice, when she was able to make herself speak, was high and reedy and not at all steady. “Why – why didn't you tell me? It's today, isn't it?”

 

The answer came, delivered upon a synthetic voice of quiet, sad humor. “ _ **I was hoping you'd forgotten, honestly. I didn't...I didn't want to be selfish.**_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

The phone rang. It was ignored while a single, seemingly harmless sentence caromed around the inside of Taylor's skull. She scrubbed her hands over her head, bringing them to cover her face as she hissed a deep, steadying breath in. The burn in her eyes threatened to spill into tears. Pushing the pads of her fingers against her eyelids held them off. If she started crying now it would all come tumbling out; her fear, worry, disbelief, anger, and a razor-wire ball of _something_ in her gut. It would all come out, and then this would be about her.

 

She'd sooner...well, it wasn't going to happen. The rasp in her voice and the fact that her world was rapidly blurring did nothing to help her composure. “You... are the _least_ selfish person I've ever met! You should have said something.” She swallowed, failing to clear the lump in her throat. What came next did as a whisper. “You should have said something.”

 

“ _ **What would you have wanted me to say?**_ ”

 

“Something!” She threw out her arm. “Anything! Anything would have better than...not.”

 

“ _ **I'm sorry, Guardian. I –**_ ”

 

“ _Don't!_ ” her eyes shot up, something like lightning crackling in her gaze, as she glared. “Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry! You don't have to – there's nothing to be sorry for. Not...not today.” The fingers in her left hand began to shake, no more than a minor trembe that her curling them into a fist. With that came the desire to _strike_ , to lash out until she was as empty within as she wanted to be.

 

“ _ **Guardian...**_ ” Ghost's eye flickered from side to side, as if searching for the right thing to say. Taylor knew, even if he didn't, that there was no such thing. Not in a time like this. Finally, he sighed, a sound akin to two pieces of metal rasping over each other. “ _ **I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to hurt you, and it seems I have anyway. I don't like that. How can I make this better?**_ ”

 

“Stop dying.” It came out closer to a plea than the command she meant it to be.

 

“ _ **We both know I can't do that, Guardian.**_ ”

 

“There has to be _something_ we can do!” Suffused with energy, she began to pace, snapping her words as she stormed to and fro. Her mind raced, a thousand directions at once, a hundred ideas whirring across the surface of her thoughts. “What if – what if Igave you back the Light? Just...went back to being me?”

 

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

The phone rang again, trilling strident and insistent that the words it carried were more important than Taylor losing someone she cared for very much. Again. It seemed especially loud in the silence her suggestion had brought. Then it was broken.

 

“ _ **Even if I wanted you to, even if you**_ **could** _ **, I wouldn't let you.**_ ”

 

“Why _not_?” Somewhere between a whine and a growl now, if she didn't stop soon she'd explode like she did two years ago. “I made it fifteen years without the Light, Ghost, I'm pretty sure I can go back!”

 

“ _ **No. You can't.**_ ” As serious as Ghost had ever been, he explained. “ _ **You and your Light are not separate from each other. There isn't a divide through which you reach to act as a Guardian.**_ **You** _ **are the Guardian.**_ **Yours** _ **is the Light. Even if you could give it up, it would be like ripping all the blood out of your body at once. You would die. I refuse to let you die for me.**_ ”

 

Taylor choked back a sob, halfway up her throat and feeling like puke. “But it's okay for you to do it for me? I'm calling bullshit. Bull- _fucking_ -shit.” The phone rang _again_ , and something, a tiny, wire-thin fraction of what burned within, broke loose. She stormed across to snatch the handset from its cradle and slam it back down. Then she did it again, and twice more until the plastic cracked under the force of her blows. Her breaths came hard and fast through her nose, hissing and angry. “I will not let you die for me. I _refuse_.”

 

Ghost chirped and whirred, the cracked front half of him spinning. It looked a lot like a helpless shrug. He was quiet for a long moment, only the faint dial tone from the upset house phone filling the tense silence between them. “ _ **I was dying when I came to this world, you know.**_ ” He seemed like he was about to continue, but Taylor knew where he was going. That since it was before they'd met, it wouldn't be because of her. Good words, maybe even true words. She'd been through this before. It didn't matter. So she cut him off.

 

“I remember.” Words like grinding stones, spilling over each other. “I remember, and I've been through this before. You think that because you were dying before we met makes this in any way better? You'll still be gone, and I'll still be here. Again.” She was breaking her promise, the one she made to herself. She was making this about her. She didn't want to, and the shame of her failure scorched through her, but she could barely stop herself. Again, she repeated. “There has to be _something._ Anything.” Quieter, “I don't want you to go.”

 

“ _ **And I don't want to leave. You're my Guardian, and I'm your Ghost. I don't want to leave that. But there's nothing we can do.**_ ”

 

The question bubbled out of her before she could stop it. “How long?”

 

There was no need to clarify.

 

“ _ **Until sunset.**_ ”

 

The clock's merciless display said it was an hour to noon. Not enough time.

 

“ _ **What do we do now?**_ ”

 

Taylor shrugged, feeling more than helpless. Bitter amusement touched her as she copied Ghost's earlier move. “Whatever you want. It's your day, after all.”

 

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

There was a national park twenty miles west of Brockton Bay. A bus ran there and back every two hours, twenty four hours a day. It had a lake, small mountain, and any number of hiking trails leading to hidden places of natural wonder. On any other day, it would have been perfect. Her and a dear friend on their way up to roam around, breathe clean air, walk beneath leafy ceilings until they felt too loud, too saturated with the quiet and go home. Today she was hiding inside the deep hood of her sweater, seated as far back in the bus as it was possible to get. Her hand, inside the front pocket, was clenched tightly around her knife, sheath and all. Drawing not comfort, but stability, from the solid metal-and-leather beneath her fingers.

 

She didn't know why Ghost had chosen the park as the last place he wanted to see. She didn't really care. He could have picked the landfill for all it mattered to her. This was his chosen place, and this was where they went. School could fuck itself, for today and every day after. This was, and would always be, more important. Out the window she could the large asphalt and concrete visitor center, with cul-de-sac out front for buses like hers, growing close. The twenty minute ride had passed in silence. Jaw aching silence while inside she alternated between a storm of emotion and a curious distance from everything.

 

When she stepped off the bus, gravel crunching beneath her sneakers, she was somewhere between. Whether she wanted it or not, the wildness of the park was calling to the Hunter in her, soothing her heartache with the distracting notion of new things to see and places to find. She breathed deep, drawing in the contrasting scents of gasoline fumes and pine needles, and felt more settled when she exhaled. She wasn't happy, or calm, not by a long shot, but she could pretend to be until sundown. It wouldn't matter so much after that. “So where do you want to go?”

 

Ghost made himself visible, hovering near her shoulder to minimize chances of being seen by an errant passer-by. She heard him spin around, taking in the view with a quiet, almost awed regard. There was a whine to his movements, a sound like grinding gears that hadn't been present before. “ _ **I think...the mountain. The sunset would look glorious from up there, wouldn't it?**_ ”

 

Taylor hummed her agreement, then frowned. She wasn't sure they would make it in time. No. They _would_ make it. Even if she had to run the whole way. If she ran up there, never stopping and going close to her top speed, she could make it. So she would. After drawing a deep breath in, filling her lungs with the cooling afternoon air, she began to run. Faster than she ever had in her life.

 

Very little of the run up was anything clearer than the pounding of sneakers into slightly-soggy earth, coupled with the race of her heart, and the rush of wind on her face. Her muscles burned as she demanded more and more from herself. If the aftermath of the death of Taylor's mom had been handled _at all_ , least of all well, she would have been familiar with the idea of coping mechanisms. The idea of using an activity as a sort of funnel for emotion. As things were, she had no idea why she seemed to feel better as she ran, only that she did. It was all still there, the coiled barbed wire ball in her chest, but as the distance passed and the mountain summit grew closer the barbs dulled and smoothed, fading away.

 

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

Sweat soaked her clothes and stuck them to her skin. Her hair had swung itself free from the rough ponytail it had been in, tangling in and on itself into a giant, sweaty tangle. There was a viewing area, no more than a slightly flat patch of clear stone, at the summit. Hollow metal poles had been driven in, with a chain stretched between to mark off the difference between the 'safe' and 'unsafe' parts of the mountaintop. There were no benches, just conveniently shaped pieces of stone scattered around. As she took slow, deep breaths, she checked to see how much time it had taken her to get there.

 

When she'd gotten to the park the sun had been on its way to setting, still bright and warm and yellow. Now closer to the western horizon, it had deepened into a red-and-orange glow, casting narrow beams of light across the slowly darkening sky. She could feel the beginnings of cold's bite on her hands and face. A dozen feet beyond the boundary, she saw a claw of stone spear out over a drop down to a gravel slope. It would be a great place to sit and dangle her feet, and better, it had a good view of the sunset. Once she'd sat, swinging her sneakers and folding her hands in her lap, Ghost made himself visible, appearing a couple of inches over her shoulder.

 

When he spoke, it was with a voice quieter and more strained than she was prepared for, and it hit like a physical blow. “ _ **I didn't think it'd be so different.**_ ” Taylor made an inquisitive noise, not trusting her voice. “ _ **The Earth I came from had places like this, more or less untouched by development or destruction, but...they lacked something that this place has. I can't say what, exactly.**_ ” He hummed, falling into thought, and she let the moments pass in silence. “ _ **Maybe...maybe it's peace. What do you think, Taylor?**_ ”

 

Her heart ached, then. A true pain like an iron fist clenching tight. There was a hot, tight lump in her throat, full of a desire to say something and lack of anything to say. She swallowed a few times, blinking hard, before trying. Her voice was as hoarse and weak as his. “I think – I think you might be right.” She sniffed, brushing under her eyes. “There's definitely something.”

 

He hummed, drifting slowly towards the ground. Taylor watched with fascinated horror. “ _ **I'm glad. Do you know why I called you Taylor, just now?**_ ”

 

She shook her head.

 

“ _ **Me neither. It just seemed...right. Is it okay if I call you Taylor?**_ ”

 

Her jaw ached. Her fingers were clenched so tight they were pale and trembling. A shuddering breath later, and she was able to respond. “It's okay. I don't mind.” And then, because she could no longer stop herself, “How am I gonna be a Guardian without my Ghost?”

 

He laughed quietly as he settled gently to the ground. “ _ **You're going be fine, Taylor. In fact, you're going to be**_ **great** _ **. I guarantee it.**_ ”

 

“I won't be half as good without my partner.” Maybe if she goaded him into a discussion, he would stay longer. “Ghost?”

 

It didn't work. As the sun sank below the horizon, shrouding the summit of the small mountain in darkness, Taylor finally – _finally_ let go of everything inside.

=+= Chapter 9: Out of Time =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be the chapter where I lose some of you guys, if only for how I portray Taylor throughout. Or, on the upside of things, this is the chapter where I convince you guys I'm not a madman with a keyboard. Either way.


	10. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time heals all wounds, and brings opportunities for brand new ones.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 10: Moving Forward**

 

It was a curious and unwelcome thing, to have both knowledge and perspective on grief. When Taylor lost her mom, it had gutted her. The next days blended into weeks and followed into months of solitude, tears, and silence. Twelve years old and without anyone to help her through her grief. She didn't know how she made it through, how she managed to recover from the loss. It was only now, months after she'd buried Ghost in a shallow grave on a small mountain's summit, that she understood. She hadn't. She had simply become so accustomed to the onus of grief that she convinced herself it was how she had always been. It had taken another loss to show her this, and thus proved to her the existence of cosmic irony. A second grief to begin healing from the wounds of the first? She didn't think it was possible.

 

Yet there she was. Perhaps it was the difference. Last time she was utterly alone and convinced of it. This time she had her dad, and Sabah, and something within that refused to allow her to wallow and mope. Maybe it was the Light that ran through her, wove itself into her very being? Maybe it was the lesson, experience taught by her first encounter with grief? Or maybe, and she had her doubts and deepest, desperate hopes, it was the last gift Ghost had given her? Whatever the reasons, she found herself taking each day since the burial better than the one before it. She spent time with Sabah, her newest and only friend, letting herself be dragged around the city in a quest that varied from day to day. She trained with John and found that she was something of a prodigy when it came to combat. She didn't see as much of her dad as she'd have liked. Things were not perfect, but they were improving.

 

It was on the subject of improvement, in fact, that she was currently receiving a rant on. Delivered by Sabah, over the phone thankfully, Taylor listened with half as much annoyance as she displayed to her friend complain about how her costume, while nearly finished, was resisting completion with a will. _“It's all done! All of it! The boots, the corset, the gloves, the cloak, it's all ready, but I just_ can't get the color!”

 

There was really only one way to reply to that. “I'm...sorry?”

 

A digitized sigh, a rush of static, whined in her ear. “ _You should be. This is your fault somehow._ ”

 

Perhaps naively of her, Taylor tried to offer a solution. “Who says it has to have color at all? I mean, why not just have like...shades of gray and black?”

 

“ _Because then you immediately become, like, Shadow Stalker 2.0, and I refuse to let a creation of mine be so cruelly archetyped._ ”

 

There was no restraining the snort that escaped her. Not that Taylor tried. Artists... “Okay, then, Designer Diva, what do you suggest?”

 

A brief pause, and then Sabah began to shout. “ _I don't_ know _! That's why I called_ you _, remember!? Also! Also! Designer Diva?! Really?! Come on, Taylor, you're better than that. You'd better come and sort this mess out_ now _or I'm dyeing everything the brightest, ugliest shade of orange I can find!_ ”

 

“All right, all right!” Her protests were rendered half-hearted by the laughter that kept bubbling over her words. “I'll be at your shop in...twenty-ish minutes. No orange dyes, you hear?”

 

“ _No promises._ ”

 

Then Sabah hung up, leaving Taylor to smile at her phone until she remembered the part about the corset. Then she frowned, and got up to rush down to the Boardwalk and make sure she had misheard.

 

=+= Chapter 10: Moving Forward =+=

 

She hadn't.

 

There was a corset. Well, not a _corset_ corset, nobody was living in Victorian England anymore, and she didn't find dying of a punctured lung especially appealing, but it was tight enough – and _revealing_ enough – that it made little pinpricks of discomfort crawl up her spine. Plus, “I don't think I can pull of a corset, Sabah.”

 

“Pssh.” Came Sabah's reponse, paired with a dismissive hand wave. “Which one of us is the fasion major, who also makes a living doing this exact thing? Trust me, you can pull it off. Plus, there's an undershirt, so don't get your tights in a knot.” She went to a table, stacked with textbooks and ringed pads of drawing paper, seized one at random, and opened it. She flipped to a page then handed it over. “This is what's on the mannequin in the back. Feast your eyes.”

 

Taylor did, and found a profound _rightness_ inside her at the sight within. The forementioned undershirt was basically a turtleneck, rising up to just below the curve of her jaw and going down to about mid hand. A scrawl on the side denoted holes in the sleeves for her thumbs, to keep them from riding up. Over that went the...corset...which looked more like vest. A corvest? Vestet? Anway, hand to mid-forearm was glove, leaving her fingers exposed. “Why fingerless gloves?”

 

“They're cool.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Her pants were a modified pair of horseback-riding pants, tight fitting and comfortable – or so the note claimed. Boots, with _no_ heel, thank God, came up to her knee. Then there was the cloak. It looked to fit over her neck like a hooded poncho, then drape down to just above her ankles with some artful fraying at the bottom. Scattered around the entirety were places for her to attach her knife and whatever other tools she managed to scrounge up. “It looks...”

 

“Good, right? The coolest costume you've ever ever seen?” The words were expected, but the tone was not. The apprehension, almost worry, made Taylor look up to see a flicker in Sabah's dark eyes. It had never occurred to her that Sabah might be concerned about how she reacted.

 

Taylor smiled widely. “It's perfect, Sabah.” Then, her smile took a mischievous turn. “Well, almost. If it had color, it'd be...” she trailed off, shaking her head with as much wistfulness as she could muster.

 

Sabah's eyes widened, mouth opening, finger pointing indignantly at Taylor. “You! Do _not_ try me right now. I have dye, and I'm not afraid to use it!”

 

“Don't. All kidding aside, it looks _amazing_. I think it'd be even better in real life.” There. Hint dropped. Subtle? Well, that was a diferent question. Without a word, Sabah gave an exaggerated bow and arm sweep, inviting Taylor to look for herself. With a mounting sense of excitement and anticipation, she did just that.

 

It was even better than the sketch. And, as she looked, it came to her. “Purple.”

 

Sabah gave the costume a critical once over, brow furrowed in thought. “You think?”

 

Taylor nodded. “Dark purple, and...black? Yeah, black.” She turned to her more fashionably inclined friend. “That work for you?”

 

A long moment passed. Then, a decisive nod. “Yes.”

 

Thus, Guardian's costume was born. And there was much rejoicing. By people named Taylor and Sabah.

 

=+= Chapter 10: Moving Forward =+=

 

Sabah, to her credit, waited until the takeout arrived and been spread out between the two of them before diving into planning what she called 'their next move'. In the back room, under the closed door of which dye fumes drifted, Taylor's costume was having its finishing touches put to it. The scent wasn't strong enough for anyone to pick up without her senses, and it was putting her off the chicken teriyaki and fried rice she'd been craving for the past day. They'd set up on the floor, legs crossed, and were passing cartons back and forth with orders to try this, or this. “So I was thinking about what we did next?”

 

“We?” Taylor speared a chunk of fried and sauced chicken with a chopstick, having given up on mastering them, before eating it in one massive bite. Maybe not _that_ put off. “I don't recall you doing much fighting.” There was more to hero work than fighting, she knew, but for the purposes of messing with Sabah truth could be smudged a little.

 

A thrown packet of napkins was the elegant reply, followed by, “Yeah, and _I_ don't recall you doing much costume making, so we're even. Anyway, here's what I was thinking: It's been a while since we found you something gang related to interfere with, and I got a e-mail from Armsmaster the other day asking if you were okay – well, not really, but I translated – so maybe...maybe it's time to make a reappearance?”

 

Taylor set aside a box of entirely too spicy noodles and, setting her chopsticks on top, turned the idea over. There had been a plan, she recalled, not too long ago, or the intention to form a plan. Whichever it had been. She remembered the intent vividly, the burning determination and yes, a little bit of outrage and indignation. Her failure to capture Mush had been salved by his concussion – a parting gift from her – making his capture a slam dunk. That had been taken from her by the news of his escape. She'd only forgotten, had more put it out of her mind, because of...well...no need to be redundant. Plus, she found that the process of moving forward went easier if she didn't force herself to think about it every half hour. Intrusive thoughts were such a pain.

 

“There might be an issue with that.”

 

Sabah quirked a brow, a talent that she hadn't ever been able to pull off. “And that would be?”

 

“Well...” Taylor cleared her throat, took a drink of soda, and picked up her carton again. “I freely admit I'm no expert, but it's been a while since I hit the Merchants, and I lost any um...surprise? Momentum?...when I didn't follow up for a while. I _think_ they'll be ready for me if I try anything now, or at least more prepared. Am I making sense?”

 

“More or less. I just have two questions. First, why does it have to be the Merchants you go after and two, what makes you say that?” Sabah stole one of her eggrolls, tore it in half, and dragged it through her duck-sauced brown rice. Taylor retaliated by curling her legs under her and leaning back on the palms of her hands. She rocked her head back and forth, trying to nail down where this idea was coming from. Too much TV? A half-remembered snippet from a history text? Some part of the Guardian/Hunter instinct package? Whatever the source, and she found the last to be likeliest, the more she considered it, the more sense it made.

 

“To the first...because they're the bottom of the pole, criminally speaking. The cream of the crap. Perfect to cut my teeth on. And...I guess also because I started with them, and I don't much care for leaving things undone. As for where all that came from?” She shrugged. “Instinct, or something.”

 

Sabah rolled her eyes, and dragged her backpack over, fishing inside for what turned out to be her laptop. It made a faint tone as she opened it and click-clacked her password in. “You should really be more vague, Taylor. Nobody likes getting the answer they asked for. _Anyway_ , since you're all fixated and crap on taking down the Merchants, let's see if they've been up to anything.”

 

=+= Chapter 10: Moving Forward =+=

 

In short...no. They hadn't. Which was weird, given that not too long ago they were raiding ABB cash houses and staging high-risk, middle-of-the-day breakouts. They had been mobile, agile, and hostile, as the saying went, and to Taylor that meant they'd been gearing up to something greater. A territory grab, or assassination on a high level member of an opposing gang, or whatever it was that gangs fought each other over. Maybe it was at least partially because they wanted to. The kind of reckless violence that came from an overinflated opinion of themselves and an enormous amount of drug use. Reasons aside, they had gone from leading up to something to just kind of...not. It didn't make sense.

 

She wasn't the only one to think so, either. Sabah's frown had deepened as they searched forums, new sites, independent blogs – anywhere that might have useful information – and found jack-all. “This is deeply weird, Taylor. Gangs just don't give up when they were on a roll like that.”

 

Taylor hummed her agreement, turning thoughts and ideas over in her mind. “Well, they didn't disappear, so... _something_ is up. They're planning something.” She drum-rolled her fingertips on the floor, chewing on her bottom lip. “They're definitely planning something.”

 

“Probably. But what?”

 

“That,” Taylor drew the word out, pensieve. “is the million dollar question. I think it's time we phone a friend.”

 

Sabah nodded her agreement until the end, when she paused. Then frowned, groaning. “You mean Armsmaster, don't you?”

 

“Yep.” Taylor was given a look demanding more than a one-word answer, and who was she to decline? “He's the only cape I've met that I didn't punch into concussion land _and_ given our good behavior he's more likely to cooperate with us. Right?”

 

Sabah chewed her lower lip, before shaking her head. “I'm not sure. When I told you that I'd never seen him act that human, I was only kind of joking. Man's a stickler for the rules, and if the PRT is sitting on something confidential, he _can't_ give it to us. Even if he wanted to, which he wouldn't.”

 

“So...you're saying it's a bad idea?”

 

“That _is_ what I'm saying.”

 

Taylor nodded. “Okay. Let's do it anyway. Either he gives us something to work with, in which case yay, or he doesn't, and we're right back here.”

 

Dark eyes gave her a gimlet look. “I _told_ you I don't like it when you ruin stuff with logic, Taylor.” Then a sigh. “Fine, I'll send him an e-mail.”

 

“Not a phone call?”

 

“Nope.” Sabah's fingers danced over the keyboard as she answered. “He never answers his phone unless it's Dragon, the Triumvirate, the Director, or God Himself. E-mails, he gets piped into his helmet. He'll answer, and soon.”

 

Taylor settled back against Sabah's backpack, shifting her hips to try and find a more comfortable position. Out of the corner of her eye, she _thought_ she saw Sabah following her movements with more than a passing curiosity, but dismissed it. Social interaction, while she'd come a long way, was still really not her thing. She took up a now-cool egg roll and tore it in half. “Good. This floor isn't exactly comfy.”

 

“This is a fabric store, not a furniture shop, Taylor. A pretty dress or cool costume, I can do. A super-comfy sofa, you'll want that furniture Tinker in Des Moines.”

 

“There is _not_ a furniture Tinker anywhere, let alone Iowa.”

 

Sabah scoffed. “Shows what _you_ know.”

 

=+= Chapter 10: Moving Forward =+=

 

“So...um...” The waiting silence, which had until then been a companionable sort of thing, each lost in their own thoughts, turned tense and awkward. Sabah, the change's source, chewed on a fingernail, before blurting her question out. “How are you...doing? With uh...you know.”

 

It was far from the first time that question had been asked. Though the origin of the question varied between Sabah and her dad, Taylor had gotten rather tired of hearing the various forms of 'how are you dealing?'. She couldn't really hold it against them, though. They asked because they cared, and that was a nice change from last time, when she had no one in her corner at all. Well...not _no one_ , but...Taylor didn't think of her as a person anymore. Which was besides the point, that having people care about how she felt both heartened and annoyed her. Until this time, that is. Normally she either gave a non-commital grunt or the lie of 'I'm fine', and did so because the sharp pain in her chest every time someone reminded her of her loss. This time, she was able to actually answer. “Better, I think.” She shrugged. “There are days when I barely think about him at all, and days where every time I have a question I look over my shoulder and he isn't there and it just...tears me apart, a little bit. But I keep busy, and don't hide from you or dad, so...it's better.”

 

“I know...” Sabah visibly struggled for words momentarily. “I know that I have no right to tell you how to mourn, but...I lost my dad a few years ago, and my mom not long after, so if anyone can relate, it's probably me. This is –” she cleared her throat. “This is me telling you that I'm here if you ever need me. I've said it before, but...it bears repeating.”

 

Not for the first time did Taylor curse her generally awkward nature. It made finding the right words in a _normal_ situation hard. In a time like this, with warmth and affection rushing through her and the slightest sting of tears in her eyes? Forget it. Still, she didn't need any words to hug Sabah, and that was what she did. As strong a one-armed hug as she could manage, tucking her head against the other girl's shoulder for a moment. After a few moments, she managed a tiny, “Thanks, Sabah.”

 

“Anytime, Taylor.” Sabah's laptop pinged gently. They both sat up, putting the heavy, sensitive moment behind them. “Well, he certainly took his time. Let's see what the party line is, shall we?” She tapped a few keys, clicked an icon or two, and cleared her throat. She angled the screen so the two of them could read and Taylor, given her history with and fondness for the written word, finished first.

 

It took her a moment to digest the message. “Did Armsmaster just invite us to take part in a city-wide strike against the _Merchants_?”

 

Sabah nodded. “It seems that way. Did you catch that bit about them getting another member?”

 

“Yeah, something about a...chemical oriented Tinker? Calls himself...did that really say Roofie?”

 

A snort. “The height of class, these people. Think he's the reason they're all gung-ho lately? If he's giving them all the best looney drugs, it'd explain a _lot_.”

 

Taylor hummed, lip worried between her teeth as she turned the idea over. “It would make a heck of a lot of sense, that's for sure.” She turned a devious look on Sabah. “Really only one way to find out.”

 

“No.”

 

“And that's to suit up –”

 

“Taylor, _no_.”

 

“And go ask them!”

 

“I am _not_ getting into a fight with the Merchants and that...is final!” There had to a be a reason beyond drama for Sabah's pause in her words, but Taylor didn't know what. “Besides, even I wanted to, I can't.”

 

She gave Sabah a look that articulated her doubt.

 

“No, really. One, I have class in like, thirty minutes and two, the fabric I made your costume out of is super sensitive to dyes, and I need to make sure not it doesn't get overdone.” She patted Taylor on the shoulder, bursting with false-sympathy. “You'll just have to soldier on without me, ace.”

 

Taylor huffed, smiling. “Be that way. Where's the meeting point?”

 

=+= Chapter 10: Moving Forward =+=

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that bothered me about Worm canon and fanfiction is how it deals with grief. Or rather, how it doesn't. Part of this chapter is my attempt to address that.


	11. Who Talks First?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something smells bad, people run around, and some guy gets punched in the kidneys.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 11: Who Talks First?**

 

The meeting point was an empty lot that had, in the past, been host to one of those DIY car washes. The kind with individual stalls and pay-by-the-minute hoses and those little soap dispensers that cost a quarter each. Taylor had a very distant memory, maybe when she was five or so, of bringing the family car here, ostensibly to clean it, but ended up splashing her parents with the hose a lot. Those days were long gone, as were the days of this little business. So far in the past that weeds now grew through the asphalt, and those stalls were little more than a few walls and foundations, rusted and forgotten.

 

What this lot was now host to, to her complete, utter and sarcastic delight, was an awkward silence. As it turned out, dropping silently from a nearby fire escape in front of a group of armed, superpowered individuals wasn't the best of ideas. In her defense it had seemed like a better idea than walking up and asking if this was where the clandestine gang-war meeting was being held. And at the time, up on the rusted metal platform with no Tinker enhanced halberd pointed vaguely yet menacingly in her direction, it most likely had been. That wasn't even accounting for the lance pointed at her, crackling with its strangely disappointing lightning, or the gaping chasm of the shotgun barrel looming nearby. With this much firepower in their face, only a true idiot would do anything unpredictable. So she didn't. Even though every nerve and muscle in her body was _screaming_ for her to do something. Anything. She very pointedly did not, and that seemed to relax the group of heroes.

 

Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Armsmaster who recognized her first. With a flick of his wrist and arm that was entirely too smooth to be unpracticed he collapsed his halberd and stowed it away, snapping it to the back of his armor with a magnetic _clack_. “Guardian. Good to see you could make it.”

 

The bearer of the shotgun; a tall, olive-skinned woman in an American flag themed get-up, cleared her throat, before speaking in a warm voice with only the faintest traces of an accent. The kind of accent with a lot of throat in it. “Yeah. We're also sorry about the...uh...” she hefted the gun, now safely aimed at the ground, and nodded. “You know.”

 

“Yes.” Armsmaster's helmeted head dipped in a curt nod. “I was just about to say that, Miss Militia.” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for Taylor to say something. She didn't, too busy appreciating the fact that nobody was pointing a weapon at her anymore. “At any rate, you're who we've been waiting for, and now that you're here we can get started.” He gestured at one of the standing walls, upon which a map of the nearby Docks was tacked. “If you'd come this way.”

 

It was only a short distance, maybe ten paces, to the map, but it was enough for Taylor to get a few quick glances at everyone in attendance. The entirety of the Protectorate was present – well, everyone not the Wards, at any rate, a few independents like herself, and a couple of independent teams she didn't recognize. There was a duo standing by a long, large truck bristling with gadgetry. The truck, and the duo, were in black and silver, with cogs and gears grinding against each other as an emblem. A quartet in powered armor and exoskeletons, painted in military-style camouflage, were standing in front of the map. Apart from everyone was a masked kid straddling an obviously Tinkered motorcycle and a tall, thin man in a trench coat with a huge fucking sword in hand.

 

“Okay, then.” Dauntless, who had moved to stand opposite the camo capes, brought everyone's attentiont to him with a voice like the plucked string of a bass guitar. Very deep and very strong. “Now that we're all here, we can begin.”

 

And so, they did.

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

The plan was simple and flexible. Taylor liked it immediately. It called for a wide-net advance into the heart of Merchant territory, sticking to cover as much as possible and staying out of sight. The primary target was a warehouse down by the Boat Graveyard, where the gang's leadership had set up shop. Secondary targets were an end-to-end stack of old tractor trailers that were supposedly the location of the majority of the gang's drug supply. Confirming that was what Taylor had volunteered to do. The swordsman, who turned out to call himself Reaper, had also elected to serve as a scout. He was a Mover/Shaker/Thinker, who could travel through connected shadows, had incredible swordfighting skills and reflexes. Something about his eyes made Taylor think he wasn't entirely _there_. She intended to work as closely as required with him, and not a millimeter more.

 

The tertiary targets were Squealer's vehicles. There were at least four of them, and in a moment of clarity, their builder had set up a seemingly random patrol pattern for them to follow through the streets around the primary target. The kid on the silver bike, calling himself Burnout, and the duo with the truck – Gearheads – were tackling those. That the Merchants' trucks were armed and their's weren't didn't seem to bother them, so she assumed that they had a plan or were confident in their creations. Or both.

 

The primary target, the warehouse, was where most of the fighting would take place. The military quartet, the Knights in Camo, along with Miss Militia and Dauntless would be the first wave. Armsmaster would be the second, and following him was everyone else as they finished their assigned task. If anything went wrong, New Wave was on standby to support any group having trouble completing their objectives, with Panacea waiting on the Rig to lay hands on any wounded. Taylor was of two minds about that last bit. On one hand, it was a good idea to keep the strongest healer on Earth away from any potential hostage situations. On the other, being marginalized had to suck. With a mental shrug, which copied itself in a twich of her shoulders, she put that aside just as Dauntless was shouldering his lance and asking, “Any questions?”

 

“Rules of Engagement call for nonlethal measures, right?” One of the Knights in Camo had a thick Southie accent, and seemed somewhat disappointed to receive the confirmation that yes, they weren't looking to kill people. He also seemed to be able to deal, nodding sharply and settling back with a simple, “Roger that.”

 

“Anything else?” When no one else was forthcoming, he continued. “Right. Once you're in position, wait for the confirmation from the scouts. Once they report, move in. If we can't get their leadership, taking out their supplies is a big blow against these scumbags. If Armsmaster, Miss Militia, or I call for retreat, _do it_.”

 

It seemed then that the briefing/planning session was over, and so after a slightly awkward moment where Taylor waited to be dismissed, she and Reaper went about their appointed tasks – her scrambling up a building to the rooftops, and he vanishing into a shadowed alley. The trucks were three-quarters of a mile away. She'd be damned if the creepy sword guy beat her there. Which actually made her wonder: when had she gotten so competitive?

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

Taylor was a block away when the smell hit her. Almost literally. She'd been in the same room as Mush and it hadn't smelled this bad. The Merchant had reeked, certainly, but nothing like this. This was a level all its own. Spoiled milk and scorched meat and something... _poisonously_ sweet. It wasn't exactly those things, but it was as close as she could get. There had been nothing in her life to compare this to, but its awfulness was obvious. It wasn't a scent that she wanted to find a source to, not in the least. She pushed forward, closing her nose as well as she could as she climbed yet another building. As she did, she couldn't help but wonder exactly _what_ smelled so terrible. It was with a sunken sort of resignation that she knew – finding out was just around the corner.

 

The building was one of many empty ones in this part of the city. It looked like it had been a tenement house or a cheap motel, once upon a time. Now it was faded, crumbling bricks and broken, empty window frames. Bad news for Brockton Bay, good news for anyone looking to climb it. Like her. She scaled it without much trouble, pulling herself up onto the roof in a crouch. It felt grimy, oily under her hands, and gritty on top of that. The smell was almost overpowering now, nothing she did could keep her from noticing it or her eyes from watering. She blinked hard once, twice, three times, and then pushed onward. She kept as low and quiet as possible, curling her fingers around the rusted metal bar that had been laid into the roof, the barbs to ward off pigeons having either fallen off or fractured into jagged spines.

 

The parking lot below her held exactly what she had come to find. The three trailers looked even shabbier in person. Their doors had rusted open or fallen off, and around each entrance was clustered a snowbank of refuse and garbage. Her eyes were keen enough to catch a few details. She really wished they weren't. The only grace she could find was that there were no dead bodies. Piles of a yellow-green gelatinous sludge, jiggling gently. Cloths soaked through with something brown and flaking. Needles and broken glass and plastic bags that dripped liquid. Nausea burned the back of her throat, and she coughed, close-mouthed, into her fist.

 

Someone walked out of the middle trailer. He was as filthy as his surroundings. Yellowed plastic goggles rested on his forehead, and a ragged, stained labcoat was...Taylor's face burned and she frantically looked away. The labcoat was the only other article of clothing he wore. Staring hard at the roof beneath her hands, she reached up to touch the radio nestled comfortably in her ear. Armsmaster had handed them out before this all started, explaining that they were touch activated and to keep the channel clear of unnecessary chatter. “This is Guardian.” She was mumbling, barely enough volume to qualify as speech, having been assured they were sensitive enough to pick that up. “I'm at the secondary target.”

 

On the store bought radios she had used a few months back, there'd been static crackling over the conversations, obscuring words and generally being a pain. Not so here. When Armsmaster responded, it was as if he was standing right next to her. The wonders of technology, she supposed. “ _Armsmaster, here. Can you confirm the location?_ ”

 

It took a moment for her to parse what he meant. “Yes. This is where the stash is.”

 

A moment's pause. “ _Roger that. Reaper has yet to report in. Have you seen him?_ ”

 

A small thrill of triumph raced through her and was chased away by concern. Not for Reaper, she didn't know him well enough nor really want to, but for what his absence implied. Something went wrong. Either committed by the man himself, or circumstance preventing his check in. “No.” She risked another peek over the roof. Thankfully, the labcoat guy – Roofie, she presumed – had turned away and...and was pissing into the pile of trash. _Class act, this group_ , Sabah's voice whispered in her head. “I haven't.”

 

“ _Understood. Attention everyone, this is Armsmaster. Radio may have been compromised. We're going silent. Proceed to your objectives unless retreat is called. Out._ ”

 

Not ten seconds after the transmission ended something exploded.

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

That was the bad news. The good news it didn't happen in front of her. She saw the explosion before she heard it, a flash of impossibly bright oranges and reds just on the edge of her periphery. She whipped around just in time for the sound to hit in a physical wave. She'd known explosions would be loud, it was so obvious that if she'd heard it from someone else the urge to roll her eyes would have been incredible. But this...this was insane. The force of it, the sheer power, knocked her on her ass before the sound registered in her ears; an impossibly deep, thundrous roar like mountains crashing together. She scrambled to her feet, stealth forgotten and shot to hell besides, to stare at the growing plume of smoke and ash. “What...” her voice felt quiet and meek by comparison. Gunfire followed in wake of the fading boom, the sharp pop, hiss, and snap more familiar to her ears.

 

Her hand was touching the shell of her ear when she remembered. Radio silence. She had no way of knowing what was an acceptable reason to break that, if such a thing existed. If it did, should _she_ be the one to do it, or should a more veteran hero take the lead? Plagued by indecision, Taylor froze. Which was when something hissed past her head, followed by the snap of a discharging pistol. “I see you up there, bitch!” Reflex sent Taylor diving to the ground, more a guided collapse than anything else in her haste to escape the follow-up shots, one of which punched through a length of duct nearby.

 

“ _All capes, this is Armsmaster,_ ” Well. That answered her question. “ _The Gearheads and Burnout have engaged Squealer. Guardian, find Reaper and move to support. Everyone else, stay on objective. Out._ ”

 

Rolling onto her belly and cursing under her breath at Reaper, Taylor wiggled towards the left side of the building she was on. From there, she could drop down and take out the guy shooting at her. She hoped it wasn't the mostly naked guy in the lab coat, because the idea of getting close to, let alone touching him, made her skin crawl. Another bullet screamed overhead, heading off to parts unknown, as she dragged herself through the dirt, gravel, and old asphalt covering the roof. _Sabah is going to flip_ , she thought, as she reached the edge and poked her head over _, or she would if she didn't hate this costume_.

 

Far more comfortable with the idea than she'd been the last time, she flipped herself headfirst over the side of the building. Her legs curled in as air rushed past and the world turned over, showing sky, then ground, before she landed in a crouch. It hadn't been her quietest landing, to be sure, but the sound of gunfire, and the guy's own vulgarity filled shouting covered her actions quite nicely. She reached for her knife, pulling it free but not yet igniting the blade. Its weight in her hand reassured her, gave her the fortitude to push forwards towards the lot with the empty trailers, the fetid trash, and the guy with a gun. What a life.

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

It stank even worse up close. She didn't know what drug came out of this process, but if it was anywhere _near_ as foul, only the truly insane would get close, let alone ingest it. The only, and she did _mean_ only, benefit to the piles of plastic bagged garbage scattered around the lot was that they were tall enough to cover her crouched form. Taking care to avoid touching anything, and ignoring the thick sludge oozing from ruptures in the bags, she crept ever onward. Ahead of her, no more than a dozen feet, the lab coat guy – she just assumed that it was Roofie in all his glory – was wrestling with his gun and swearing a torrent of inventive vulgarity. He used words in ways she didn't think were possible before and if he weren't naked and gross and a bad guy, she might have been impressed.

 

As it was, she just wanted to find a way to avoid touching him. The knife in her hand dragged gently on the ground, drawing her attention and giving her an idea. She didn't have long to consider it, the sound of empty brass shells tinkling as they fell telling her he'd finally figured out how to reload the gun. She felt her heart beat against her ribs as she tensed, ready. _Enough thinking, Taylor. Act_. Breath gusted out of her as she pushed to her feet, throwing herself forward and out of cover. The world slowed. Her knife spun in her hand, rising up to flash against the pale sunlight as she aimed. Roofie's filmy eyes widened, chapped lips pulling back over rotting teeth. The cold gray weapon in his hand, cylinder locked open, was pointed uselessly away from her. She hefted her blade, shifting her grip ever so slightly, and whipped her arm forward.

 

The knife left her hand, spun once, and hit Roofie between the eyes, handle first. She'd thrown it as hard as she could and it showed. The impact sounded like a hollow concrete pipe being struck and he fell, poleaxed, to the ground. He _seemed_ out of it, but if Mush had taught her anything, it was not to underestimate the ability of a Merchant to operate at diminished capacity. So she ran up and kicked him in the head. Hard. Twice. That did it, or at least made it look that way. He was still and his eyes closed, but he was breathing and she could see the pulse jumping in his neck. No way was she touching him to confirm it. She scooped her knife up and cued her radio. “This is Guardian. Secondary objective is secure. I have one Merchant unconscious. He might be Roofie, over.”

 

The reply came instantly, with the mixed sounds of shouting and gunfire in the background. “ _Guardian. Armsmaster here. Confirm capture of...Roofie?_ ” He said the man's cape name with disgust and reluctance. Taylor didn't blame him.

 

“I _think_ it's him. He's wearing nothing but a lab coat and some goggles, and –”

 

“ _That's him. Secure him and proceed. I've flagged your position for a pick-up._ ”

 

Taylor looked around for something to tie him with. She found nothing, and sighed. It looked like she would have to touch him after all. But first... “Roger that. Guardian out.” That done, she kicked him over onto his belly and used her knife to cut the lab coat's sleeves off. There! Handcuffs! Well, they were makeshift and smelled of something horrid, but they worked, and that was the important thing. She tied his arms behind his back with one, and his feet together with the other. That done, she stood and brushed her hands against each other. More than happy to put the foul-smelling place behind her, she sheathed her knife and sprinted off.

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

The battle between the Gearheads, Burnout, and Squealer's fleet of modded cars was taking place over a series of rapidly emptying streets. The Gearheads' big, armored truck was looking worse for wear, paint scraped off in streaks and dents scooped into the metal. Despite this, it still looked better than the Merchants' vehicles that surrounded it, all of which appeared too poorly built to move, let alone damage anything. The gun mounted on the back of the truck rotated, hummed weirdly, and fired. It was not, as Taylor half-expected, a bullet or grenade, but a quartet of bright blue disks that seemed to pass through an equal number of vehicles before fizzling out of existence. The cars they hit slowed to a stop, spilling out people who shouted at the running battle as it left them behind and kicking their now-dead transportation.

 

The fight hit a three-way intersection and, by some consensus-driven choice, turned right, speeding down the hill towards the train yard. Burnout's silver cycle darted around the outsides of the nebulous cloud of vehicles, Tinker-made projectiles, and good old fashioned gunfire. Taylor, from her position of headlong sprint along rooftops, barely able to keep up, could see him intentionally crashing his tires into those of Merchant cars. She wasn't able to see _why_ , exactly, until a tire exploded and sent yet another car veering off the road. There was a worry that the kid would get himself hurt, exposed as he was, yet it seemed he was too fast and never in one place for long enough for anyone to get a bead on him.

 

Her breaths were coming in shallow pants, and her costume was almost soaked through with sweat. Her muscles burned with the effort of keeping up with souped-up vehicles, but she couldn't stop. She reached the edge of another roof and threw herself into the air, crossing the street in an act that would have thrilled her not too long ago but had now become almost routine. She landed, rolled, and came up running. Ahead the road ducked under a bridge, one of those old brick constructions that had too much 'historic value' to be remodeled or removed. It was right after the first Merchant passed underneath, into the long shadows cast, that Reaper made his reappearance. The shadows boiled, and a blur separated from them to blink across the street, leaving the sounds of tearing metal and screeching tires behind. The lead car spun out, going perpendicular to the street before flipping into the air, spinning once, twice, before crashing with a hollow, drumming crash.

 

The running battle then became a battle. Burnout continued to dance around the outsides, driving directly at someone only to have a shimmering field appear just before impact, sending his target spinning to the ground in a pile of jittering limbs. Some kind of taser field? The Gearheads' turret rotated again, spinning in a circle and barking rubber bullets into the growing crowd of Merchants abandoning their cars. Taylor hit the ground as Reaper appeared again, coat billowing behind him, to spear a shouting man's gun hand to the car behind him. The Merchant screamed, high and loud and barely human, and Reaper withdrew his sword and brought it whipping around. Her breath caught, sure she was about to see someone die, when the flat side of the sword crashed into the man's head.

 

She drew her knife, igniting its bright edge, feeling the reassuring rush of Light within as she dove into a trio of Merchants, all distracted by their efforts to shoot through what was obviously bulletproof glass. Her knife flashed in the air, lightning arcing along its length, cutting through their guns like butter. No, easier. Tissue paper. The pieces of former firearm fell to the ground as she dropped a punch into the leftmost thug's kidneys. He doubled over, letting her grab his head and heave him into his fellows as they were beginning to attack her. They stumbled under his weight, shoving him angrily to the side. One pulled a wrench from his shabby jacket and brandished it as the other fitted a set of brass knuckles onto his fist.

 

There was a moment of stillness. She twitched. They lunged. The wrench came up and over in an overhand swing that she dodged, pushing at the arm to spin the thug around and boot him in the ass. He went headlong into the window of the car behind him, spiderwebbing the glass with his forehead and falling to the ground, dazed. The second, wary, approached with fists held before his face, bouncing them like a boxer. He wasn't. She battered through his guard with a jab-cross combo before thumping him in the solar plexus. His breath whooshed out of him, sending him gasping to one knee. His face met her own knee not too much later.

 

Her fight done, she took stock of the fight around her to find it mostly finished. Burnout had come to a halt and was sitting, arms crossed and posed triumphantly, on his bike. Next to him was a pile of unconscious Merchants with suspiciously spiky hair and singed clothes. The Gearheads had gotten out of their truck and were moving among the fallen, dispensing handcuffs and tasings as necessity dictated. Reaper was gone again, leaving behind splashes of blood and gangsters with missing extremities. It wasn't much of a moral dilemma in deciding to give them first aid. They held perfectly still as she bound their wounds, wrapping strips of their shirts and pants around the injuries and telling them to keep the knot tight. Whether they listened or not was up to them.

 

Taylor stood, wiping strands of hair from her sweaty face, and sighed. Thank God that was over. She didn't want to run another foot, let alone however far it was to the warehouse where, as she caught her breath, Armsmaster and Miss Militia were fighting the rest of the Merchants by themselves. Whether they needed it or not – and she thought that they probably didn't – help would not go amiss. She was about to bring this up when a whistle caught her attention. One of the Gearheads was leaning out the window of their truck. “Hey! We gotta move! Hop in the back, we'll get there in no time!”

 

She nodded, and vaulted into the back of the truck. It wasn't the most comfortable of seats, but it worked for her. God, her feet hurt. So did her knuckles, but she was used to that by now. The pain was fading, all of her aches were, and she hoped it would be enough for her to be of any help once they reached the warehouse. As they raced down the street, Burnout riding next to them, something came to her. Something puzzling.

 

Wasn't Squealer supposed to have been part of that fleet of cars?

 

“ _All capes...this is Armsmaster_.” Alarm shot through her. He sounded tired, and in pain. Two things she'd never thought possible. “ _Be advised. Squealer has constructed a tank._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I ran out of pre-written stuff at chapter 9, like I said back in...chapter 4, I think...update speed is gonna slow to every week or two weeks. If there's a delay, a hiatus, or I'm just gonna drop the story, I'll put it in the notes for the most recent chapter.
> 
> Thanks for all the support and likes and stuff. It really means a lot.


	12. Squealer's Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the Tinkers in all the gangs in all the world, why oh why did Squealer have to build a tank?

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels**

 

The warehouse was pretty typical. Wide, long, low, made of corrugated metal, and largely held up by rust. There was a scrap of faded white paint on a wall – what was left of the number to tell _this_ particular building apart from all its identically built neighbors. The few windows that existed were either filmed over or busted out. Through its front doors a vast emptiness beckoned, holding nothing but shadows and dim, natural light. It was the sort of building that a city native could expect to drive past about once every three days. Something would stir within them, something like regret, at the sight and then fade as they went about their day. If someone were to drive past this warehouse now, what they saw would not leave them for quite some time.

 

What was in front of this warehouse? A war zone. The front of the building was blocked, a semicircle of shabbily dressed men, women and a disturbing number of teenagers, all brandishing weapons ranging from planks of wood to oddly clean firearms. They cowered and took cover behind crates and boxes and in one case, a stack of K-rails. Behind this mob was a platform of crates, atop which ranted a man in a dirty black bodysuit. Purple lines had been shoddily painted across the body, and his eyes were covered by thick sunglasses. Skidmark, from this raised vantage point, exhorted his fellow cape and rumored lover to ever greater heights of destruction. In between anatomically impossible suggestions and floods of vulgarity he would gesture with his hands as the people around him threw whatever they could get their hands on. Violet light would catch these objects and accelerate them to near-bullet speeds, shooting them across the no man's land to pepper and harass the half-dozen heroes taking shelter behind a large, black truck.

 

Between these two embattled groups was something that, despite its terrible and improbable construction, was clearly a tank. A huge turret was mounted on what had, at one point, been four station wagons. Squealer had managed to connect a baffling number of things together to construct something far deadlier than anyone thought her capable of. After all this was over, it would be a safe bet that someone, somewhere, would be updating the Merchants' threat rating from whatever-it-was to one notch higher.

 

Taylor had dropped out of the Gearheads' truck a quarter-mile from the battle, insisting that she make her own way. The itchy feeling she'd come to associate with her Hunter instincts had all but demanded it, in fact, and she was glad for it. If she'd been pinned down, like the Gearheads now were, she would go from being useful to useless. That was something she wouldn't allow. Not ever again. She reached up to cue her radio, waiting for the thunder of Squealer's tank firing to fade before speaking. Despite her efforts, some indecision leaked into her voice. “This is Guardian. I'm free to move. What...what should I do?”

 

“ _Roger that, Guardian, glad to hear from you. We – hold on._ ” Miss Militia had taken over radio duty, it seemed. Taylor wondered what could be occupying Armsmaster to the point of distraction when the obvious thundered another shot at the pinned heroes. Her eyes were keen, her reflexes keener, and she had managed to pierce the blur surrounding the object – just for a moment – to see a...bowling ball? It plowed a furrow into the concrete no-man's land before exploding in a spray of superheated ceramic shards. There was a follow-up sound, gears grinding, before the hatch atop the tank swung open and smoke began to billow out. “ _Seems we've been given a reprieve and we're going to capitalize, Guardian, so here's the plan: New Wave is going to hit the Merchant line_ hard _while we go after Squealer's tank. Go signal for us is an amber laser. Got it?_ ”

 

“Got it. Waiting for the signal. Guardian out.”

 

She was beginning to really, really hate waiting. She was itchy – not Hunter itchy- just plain old uncomfortable. The urge to reach under her scarf to scratch her nose was becoming harder and harder to ignore, and the clothes beneath her costume were beginning to rub and chafe and cling in unwelcome ways. Thankfully, she was prevented from wallowing any further by a beam of amber light spearing through the clouds to hit Skidmark directly in the center of his chest. Though she didn't need it, sprinting forwards with burning blade in hand, in her ear came the shouted order from Miss Militia to “ _Go, go, go!_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

The first person to reach Squealer's tank was _technically_ Armsmaster. She wasn't sure if a rocket-propelled halberd counted, though that did nothing to detract from the sheer efficacy of the weapon shearing into the turret's mount and, somehow, perhaps by fouling some mechanism, prevent it from turning. The vehicle could still turn, but it would have to be the slow way, rotating the whole thing instead of the turret. Going by that technicality, it was Miss Militia and Velocity who tied for second. From a weapon that looked far too similar to the one pointed at her not long ago, the heroine fired a grenade that arced smoothly across the pavement to destroy one of the tank's wheels. At the same time Velocity had reached the partner wheel to the recently destroyed one, a familiar circular device held in hand. He slapped it on the rim and blurred away. One, two, three seconds later and the wheel simply stopped spinning.

 

Thus, the only thing that Squealer's tank could now do was spin in a circle. Did that make it any less of a threat? No, as the assaulting heroes soon discovered. In the hastily welded and poorly riveted metal between the wheels opened a series of windows. From these windows came guns, and Merchants attached to them. Had Taylor neither been caught up in a might adrenaline rush nor running hell-bent for leather, she might have sighed. As it was, she poured on the speed, moving faster than she ever had, seeming to blink from one place to another. It was forty feet to the tank and closing fast. Armsmaster had produced another halberd and planted it in the ground with a shield somehow springing from the haft for people to take cover behind. It was a good idea, or at least it seemed to be, but...

 

Hadn't she been talking to Sabah about something similar to this? Keeping the bad guys on the back foot because you just refused to let up? She still didn't know what to call it, but she knew in her bones how valid it was. Maybe if she hadn't let up those few months ago, nobody would be here right now and the Merchants would be nothing but a memory. Or maybe not. Now was not the time for maybes, though she was about to stake her status as someone who'd never been shot on one. Her decision to pass the cover by was clinched by the sight of the hatch on top of the tank. Specifically, that it was still open. Beneath her mask, Taylor grinned a lupine grin. Then she ran past the heroes hiding behind Armsmaster's shield, took three long, loping steps, and hurled herself into the air.

 

Below and in front of her, the Merchants tried to adjust their aim to hit her, but they did not have the space. She'd been hoping for that, and felt an out-of-place rush of relief. Once she was inside the tank she could still get shot, after all. As she drew closer she could see some stubborn wisps of smoke escaping the open hatch. Distantly, as if from farther away than she was, cursing came to her ears. It was then drowned out by the sound of Taylor landing right where she wanted to: on top of the tank. She could see a head of filthy blonde hair beginning to emerge, the thick straps of some sort of goggle wrapped around the woman's skull. Taylor knew it was Squealer, and that there was no way she wouldn't be armed.

 

_So, kid_ , John's voice rumbled in her mind, _you got here. Now what?_

 

That was the question. Luckily for everyone's chances of not getting shot, she had an answer: get in close and bring the hurt. Which was exactly what she did.

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

She'd been right. Squealer _did_ have a gun. It wasn't anything Taylor recognized, but her firearms education had been neglected of late. It was held in both of the Merchant's grimy hands and hummed faintly. There was a blinking series of dots running down the sides, red-red-blue, then red-blue-blue. She put it together when the dots went blue-blue-blue and Squealer pulled the trigger, chapped, cracked lips split in a snarl. There was a high-pitched _whoosh_ and a boiling sphere of white fire spat from the gun's end. It wasn't a certainty, but Taylor had the sinking suspicion that if that ball of fire hit her, she'd be half the girl she used to be. There was just one problem. She couldn't move fast enough to dodge it.

 

That knowledge raked at her. That she'd defied safety to get up there, defied the odds to dodge those bullets, defied death itself almost six months ago, only for it to end because she wasn't _fast_ enough.

 

Or was she?

 

There had been a moment, in the sprint earlier, where the world had blurred. The edges of her vision had turned white, and she'd _assumed_ that it was due to the strain she was putting herself under. Maybe it was something else. Maybe. She reached within, touching her Light and feeling it stir. Not like when she ignited her knife, no. That was external, a channeling. What she wanted to do now was an internal thing, even though she didn't know how. _But... you just might_. Her Light spread through her, suffusing her limbs and, with the sound of thunder in her ears, she _moved_. Her vision went white, then blue, then Squealer was right in front of her. Behind the filmy plastic lenses glassy eyes widened. The whining charge of the gun beginning to charge grew louder. Taylor took half a second to be surprised at this newfound ability of hers before reminding herself where she was and kicking Squealer in the forehead. She took two steps past, following through on momentum, then spun, doing a little hop to drop into the tank's hatch right behind the reeling Merchant.

 

It was growing redundant of her to observe that any place holding a Merchant stank, yet it kept being true. Just inside the hatch was a sort of commander's platform with a chair and controls and a screen that she assumed showed where the turret was pointing. She and Squealer were standing on the chair. On either side of that, dropping off for about four feet, was a kind of crawlspace with a metal floor. The half-dozen Merchants were crouched at their windows, shooting and swearing out at the heroes. Beneath that? Wheels and stuff, Taylor presumed. From the corner of her eye she could see a length of blue metal extruding from beneath the command seat. She was surprised no one had heard her scuffle with Squealer until she noticed just how _loud_ it was inside.

 

Speaking of...Squealer was shaking her head, looking back and forth to try and find her target before she realized that there was less space in that hatch than there had been before. Credit where it was due; the Merchant reacted quickly, spinning on her heel to try and bring the hard stock of her gun into Taylor's fragile, fleshy face. She checked the move by striking the other woman's elbow straight on with her palm, crossing over to grab a strap from Squealer's mask and pull. Instead of giving like cheap rubber or plastic, the thick strap held, pulling the head it was attached to along. Just as she had hoped. She switched their positions, using as much torque as she could to build up enough speed to force the gas-masked head into the hard plastic of the seat's headrest.

 

“You fuck!” Squealer's voice was rough and oddly deep. She was also not in any way out of the fight. While Taylor held her as still as possible, she squirmed and wormed and made enough of a nuisance of herself to produce a knife from her pocket. The only warning Taylor got was the slightest glint of bright metal before a hot line of pain was drawn down her side. Rage snapped through her, grinding her teeth and setting her lips into a snarl. By the scruff of her neck and the straps of her mask Squealer was lifted up and slammed hard into the tank's ceiling, then back down onto the chair. Once, and then again, until all fight left her.

 

Taylor touched a hand to her side, wincing at the motion's tug on her wound. That...well, that could have gone better. Squealer had been more tenacious than expected, and had extracted a price for being underestimated. Well. Lesson learned. The other six, who had somehow not noticed their boss getting taken out, would not even know she was coming.

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

The first clue the Merchant had of her presence was the sharp point of her knife tickling his Adam's apple. The second was her threat, breathed into his ear. “Drop the gun or die.” It wasn't exactly pleasant, being close enough to pick up the sweat, cigarette smoke, and general body odor issuing from him. But it worked. She felt, through the arm wrapped around his chest, the beating of his heart almost double. There was a moment of hesitation, almost like he was testing her, and the snarling urge to drive the blade home growled inside her. Then there was a quiet clatter as he shoved his weapon out the window and lifted his hands above his head. She patted his shoulder. “Good boy.” She released him, wrapping one hand around his chin and palming the back of his head with the other. Then she slammed his forehead into the metal in front of them. Impact rang out, like an oddly clear gong, and he went slack in her grasp.

 

There came a shout from behind her, “Shit, a cape!” and without thinking Taylor threw herself backwards, falling flat and smacking her head on the floor just in time for the sound of a gunshot to thunder around the enclosed space. Not unlike the bullet, which _snapped_ over her body, hit the far wall, scooped a dent into the metal, and rebounded. The sound was unlike anything she'd ever heard before, and had no words to describe. By sheer dumb luck the bullet ricocheted up into the fabric of the command chair. She couldn't let that happen again. Even _if_ she was lucky enough to not get hit, the other seven people in the tank with her may not be. They were thugs and thieves and pushers, but they hadn't yet earned death.

 

An incredibly painful wound, on the other hand, wasn't out of the question. Which led her, for the second time that day, to throw her knife at the Merchant who had just tried to shoot her. It was an off-hand throw from where she lay flat on her back, but the stars aligned and the blade spun through the air to bury itself in the meat of his shoulder. He howled, dropping his gun to grasp at his newest, most metallic limb. Taylor rolled over twice, coming up on all fours before lifting her legs, taking all her weight on her locked arms, swinging her coiled legs out in front of her, and driving the balls of her feet into the Merchant's chest. Like dominoes those three fell in a tangle of limbs, shabby clothes, and blood. There wasn't _quite_ enough space to somersault, but the weird crouching hop she pulled off brought her within punching range. Which she did – three quick whacks to three jaws, sending the recipients off into dreamland while she dealt with their fellows.

 

Or she would have, had the tank not chosen that moment to issue a guttural, grinding crunch and spew smoke all over the interior. Thick and oily, it moved like a living thing, curling tendrils around her shoulders and teasing pained tears from her sensitive eyes. She blinked as the engine, or possibly engines, died with a final rumble. In the quiet, the mumbled swearing of the three Merchants was deafening. They coughed and swiped at their burning eyes, guns forgotten beside them. Tension curled in her legs and arms, tightening her clenched fists until her scuffed knuckles turned white. She didn't know what snapped that tightly wound coil inside of her, but she sprang forward to descend on them in a flurry of punches and kicks. This was when _something_ hit the tank fast and hard enough to flip the whole damn thing over. That put an end to the fighting, as well as her being conscious, pretty quick.

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

There was only one heroic casualty, and it was her. Embarrassing did not _begin_ to cover it. She was thankful that she could blame the red in her cheeks on the rather large knot at the base of her skull and not get too many questions for it. The thing that had hit the tank turned out to be Glory Girl, who managed to look both contrite and rather proud of the fact that she'd been able to flip something that big over in one go. When she had expressed this, Panacea had dropped her forehead into the palm of her hand. Taylor sympathized. Even in the short time she and Glory Girl had interacted – long enough for a rapidly delivered yet heartfelt apology – she got the impression that the Brute with the golden-blonde hair was as much a force of nature as she was a girl. _Hurricane Glory_ , she mused, sitting on the bumper of an ambulance waiting for her turn to get checked over by Panacea. She hadn't wanted to, there was more work to be done in rounding up all the Merchants and getting them onto prison transports, but _somebody_ had said the apparently magic word 'concussion' and that put a kibosh on any movement Taylor was allowed to do.

 

Which meant that she got a great view of the heroes, costumes perhaps a little less pristine than at the start, moving around and using extraordinary powers for mundane utilities. It was kind of funny to watch Velocity blurring around the clustered groups of sitting prisoners, dispensing handcuffs at great speed before going back to Miss Militia for more. While that was going on, Armsmaster had produced a cutting torch from somewhere on his armor and was cutting sections of the now ruined tank away for Manpower and Glory Girl to stack neatly on a flatbed truck. To the right of the ambulance that served as Taylor's bench, the prison transports that looked for all the world like gray school buses were being loaded up with handcuffed prisoners, all moving in single file. Standing at the door to each bus was Panacea, with Brandish acting as bodyguard, making sure each prisoner didn't have any internal injuries.

 

It was quite the production, and the fact that it was carried out with minimal shouting and only one instance of something being dropped – one of the tank's four engines – was a pleasant surprise. As she watched the independent hero groups came up to Dauntless, who was supervising, to give their reports and be on their merry way. First came the Gearheads, with a very scruffy looking truck and sweat soaked costumes. They shook the Protectorate hero's hand, got in the truck and drove away. Next came the Knights in Camo, who had been waylaid by a splinter group from Squealer's vehicle flotilla and had just finished wrapping things up. After delivering the location, and a fist bump from the Southie kid, they wandered off. Burnout came rumbling up on his bike, grinning widely beneath his visor, to tell Dauntless that “it had been real cooperating like this” and that “He'd never had so much fun”.

 

In the depths of her head, she thought he was perhaps a little crazed. As he popped a wheelie and peeled out with a whoop, she amended that thought. He _was_ crazy.

 

Reaper never reappeared.

 

Taylor had, after a while, tuned everyone else out to put her thoughts in order and, more importantly, decide how heavily she was going to edit today's events for her dad and Sabah. Sabah might understand, being a cape and having a grasp of the way this particular world worked. Her dad would have no such luxury. If she told him everything, _especially_ how many times she was nearly shot, he wouldn't have kittens. No, he would have his very own pride of fully grown lions. Which meant that she could look forward to leaving the house again long after she died of old age. So caught up was she in her own hyperbolic thoughts that she didn't notice someone standing in front of her until they cleared their throat.

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

The noise startled a surprised “Ah!” out of her, after which she coughed and cleared _her_ throat because her voice was not normally that high. Or squeaky. After that, she looked up at who had approached, and not as far as she was expecting. So Panacea was short. Who knew? The healer's costume was more a burqa than anything, white and covering from head to toe, leaving only her hands bare and eyes visible. There was a red cross stitched neatly across her chest that made Taylor think of the Knights Templar. For a morbid moment it looked like a shroud. Then she saw the smile in Panacea's brown, tired eyes and the moment passed. Not knowing what else to do, Taylor waved. “Hi.”

 

“Hello.” Panacea sounded as tired as her eyes looked. “You draw the short straw?”

 

Her bottom lip went between her teeth for a moment. “I...don't really know what you mean.” She made a liar of herself not a few seconds later. “Oh! Now I get it. Um, yeah. I guess I did.”

 

A chuckle. “You're lucky. Last time it was Dauntless, and _his_ injury was much worse. It –”

 

“We agreed, Panacea.” Dauntless had wandered over and was wagging a disapproving finger. “We agreed to never speak of that. Or anything about that day. I like that agreement, let's stick to it.”

 

Panacea laughed, genuine and loud, for a moment. “Well, since you asked so nicely. Now, you're interrupting me. Shoo!”

 

Dauntless held up his hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to slow you down, Speedy.” He backed away for a few paces, before turning to go do something else. When Taylor met Panacea's gaze after that, they seemed less tired, more lively. Beneath her scarf, she smiled a small, impressed smile. Clever man.

 

“Sorry about him.” The healer was saying. “He hasn't found a conversation he didn't mind interrupting. So, uh...normally I ask permission to heal people – it's a legal thing, I don't know the details, but since I don't think you actually _need_ it...” she shrugged. “How about I just give you a check-up?”

 

She moved her mouth from side to side, thinking. “Will it take long? I have to get home soon.”

 

“Less than a second.”

 

“Oh. Fire away.”

 

Panacea held out her hand, palm up. Taylor wriggled hers out of its glove, letting it fall to the pavement, before dropping her sweaty, grimy, slightly bloodied hand into the one offered. There was a long pause, then. “Huh.”

 

=+= Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without consciously intending to, I dropped a reference to vanilla Destiny in the last chapter. Heh.
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who bookmarked, commented, kudo'd(that's a word now), and just plain read this. It means so vurry vurry much.


	13. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two awkward people chat, confusion is had, and someone introduces herself

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 13: Complications**

 

“Is that a good 'huh' or a bad one?”

 

Panacea made a noise, low in her throat, and didn't answer. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, and Taylor began to feel a rising sense of panic. What exactly was Panacea seeing, or... or feeling, or whatever? She stamped it down as hard as she could and cleared her throat. She felt the other girl's startle through their joined hands and wondered what about her was so fascinating.

 

“Sorry!” Beneath the veil, brown eyes widened, then focused back into reality. For a moment. She started to drift away again, _still_ holding Taylor's hand, before jolting back to herself. “It's...this is weird.” She let go and took a step back. “This is really, really weird.” 

 

Her hand hung in space for a moment before she brought it to curl in her lap. The panic curled around the block she'd put it under and started to creep up through her gut. That she didn't know what was going on didn't help at all, and probably contributed to the edge in her voice when she asked, “In a  _good_ way, or a  _bad_ way? I would really appreciate an answer.” 

 

“Oh! Sorry! Yeah, you're totally fine, it's just – ” Panacea paused, visibly struggling to find the words she needed. Taylor could sympathize. “You're kind of...I don't know...bright?”

 

She blinked. “I'm what?”

 

“I don't know. You have this kind of _glow_ to you. Like your entire body is like, infused with some sort of – of light. You're perfectly healthy, don't worry! In fact, um, you're in fantastic shape – like, Olympic athlete shape – but I've never seen anything like it.” 

 

Relief flooded through her. It wanted to manifest through a massive sigh and sagging shoulders, but she managed to contain it to a small breath out through her nose. On the heels of relief came curiosity, poking and peering around like a cat. Had Panacea just seen her Light? If so, should she try to hide it? Or should she come clean with the whole not-actually-a-cape thing? Whichever she decided, she really didn't want it to come from a mind as tired and desperate for something to eat as hers. She elected to raise her eyebrows, hum, and say something noncommittal. “That's interesting. I mean, I didn't  _know_ or anything, but it's kind of cool, I guess.” 

 

Panacea didn't seem to share her willingness to let it slide. Even though her face was largely hidden, it was easy to see that. Body language and posture communicated quite a bit. It was a few moments of an oddly tense silence before she spoke. “That's one way to put it. You uh, you don't seem too upset about it.”

 

Taylor shrugged. “You said it wasn't hurting me, and I feel fine, so...I'm not real sure why I should be.” How to make this less tense and awkward? Maybe... “You think we ought to tell somebody?”

 

 

The healer was still as she turned the idea over, eventually saying, “Maybe. In the scale of things, I guess its not  _too_ weird. I mean, I did meet a guy made entirely of metal a few days ago.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. Weld. Nice guy.”

 

“Huh. Neat.”

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

It was Taylor's sneaking suspicion that she hadn't quite seen the last of that particular conversation. This time, it was only the intercession of another member of New Wave – Shielder – who came to collect Panacea. Apparently, the independent team was returning to whatever passed for home base, and she was the one they were waiting for. “Not,” he'd felt the need to point out, “that seeing you make a friend isn't nice, but you know how Aunt Ca – uh... _ Brandish... _ gets. Busy, busy, busy.”

 

“Yeah.” Panacea had sighed, looking over to the visibly impatient Brandish and back to Taylor. “I'm familiar with that. Anyway, uh, it was...nice meeting you, and I'm glad you weren't too badly hurt.”

 

To Taylor's recollection, by the time healing via superpower had made it to her, her own regeneration had all but finished its job. Still, she'd nodded and smiled, sure to show it in her eyes since her mouth was hidden. “You too. See you around, I guess.”

 

“Yeah. See you.” There was something in Panacea's eyes. Intrigue? Curiosity? Annoyance? She couldn't tell. With a final wave, Shielder led his teammate over to the others, and they flew away, those who could fly carrying those who couldn't. The whole thing had been carried out with ease and speed that came only from repetition. With a quirk of her lips she supposed that family barbecues must be interesting. Speaking of family, hers was probably about to flip his lid. But, with something of a mental startle, she realized there was one independent party that had yet to give a report. Namely, her. Which meant she had to go find Dauntless. _That_ shouldn't be too difficult. Right? With a beleaguered grumble, she heaved herself to her feet. 

 

It was an action her body protested, though not nearly as much as she expected. Seemed like her Light, after dealing with actual injuries, then went after things like muscle soreness. That...that could be useful. She shelved the idea for later and went looking for a man with an oddly disappointing electric lance. He, and the other Protectorate heroes, were gathered by a transport that had probably started life as a Hummer, judging by the size and overall boxy shape. The passenger door was open, and Miss Militia was sitting in the seat, legs hanging out. Talking to her, while she nodded along, was Armsmaster. By the trunk, also swung wide open, Velocity had rolled up the bottom half of his mask and was snacking on some kind of energy bar. Dauntless was leaning on the front of the transport, lance cradled in his arm, while he held his other hand to his ear.

 

Of all the heroes, it was Miss Militia who saw her coming first. She nudged Armsmaster with her foot, and he turned. “Guardian?” His deep voice was tinged with the slightest edge of confusion. “What are you still doing here?”

 

“I...” she waved a hand, suddenly feeling foolish. Maybe it was due to the five veteran superheroes all staring at her. Nerves tugged at her tongue, trying to loosen it and send her into a frenzy of incoherent babble. When that failed, anxiety tried to lock her jaw shut and keep her from talking at all. Being the growing heroine that she was, Taylor elected to find a middle ground and stammered. “I realized that – that I hadn't made my report yet.”

 

“Do you have anything to add that the other indies didn't cover?” The question came from Velocity, who had an energy bar hanging from his mouth like a cigar. He didn't sound hostile or condescending, merely inquisitive. She shrugged, not really knowing what the others had told. He shook his head a moment later. “Never mind that. Let's hear it.”

 

“If I could go five minutes without being interrupted,” Armsmaster sounded only slightly annoyed, which could mean he was anywhere between that and apocalyptic rage. “I would really appreciate it. Go ahead, Guardian.”

 

So she did. She covered everything she could remember, made sure to point out the part she couldn't, and generally summed up everything she'd done. It took a lot less time than she'd thought. It seemed like quite the ordeal when she'd gone through it, yet now it just sounded like...part of the whole. That her contribution, however important, had only been part of a wider, bigger something. Not the worst feeling. Once she was done, she got the go ahead to leave from Dauntless, after affirming that she could be contacted through Parian and that no, she hadn't set up an email address yet. She waved her goodbyes and started home, sure that she would be going over everything again when she got there. That, and a shower, was what she had to look forward to.

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

A weary groan escaped her as she trudged up the front stoop, stopping at the newly replaced first step to give it a good stomp. She did it as a sort of celebration/ceremony, and also because the noise it made – that solid, wooden _thunk_ – was so very satisfying. Impact rang up her leg, twinging tired muscles. Ritual done, the next steps she took were lighter. That wasn't to say her feet were falling with the quiet they usually were, no – she clumped and clomped up those stairs and practically fell into the front door. Later, after she was clean and fed, she'd cringe in utter horror at the stupidity of walking through the front door of her home _in costume_ , but right then she was too mentally diminished to think much beyond ' _food'_ and _'shower'_.

 

Once inside she let the door swing shut behind her, tugging her spit and sweat soaked scarf off her mouth and breathed in exactly one free, deep breath before her dad found her. From the living room he came, the muted sounds of the TV following, with an expression that showed expectation and a weary, tired sort of worry. The kind of worry that you might get used to carrying throughout the day, and forget its weight until it is finally, surprisingly lifted. In her dad's case, it was seeing her in person, unharmed, for the first time since...oh, about 10 that morning. “You're home.” It was all he said before dragging her into a hug that she did not in any way try to fight. Her eyes closed and she reveled in the sensation of being held by her dad. It was a nice moment, and then it was ruined. From above her head she heard him sniff once, then twice. It was followed by, “What's that smell?”

 

She groaned and pushed him away. Embarrassment burned in her cheeks and face, flushing down her neck. “It's me.” It didn't take too much effort to admit. She wouldn't have done so if it had. Fatigue was catching up in a big way, dragging her shoulders down and softening the edges of her words. “I've had kind of a smelly day.”

 

“No kidding.” He waved a hand under his nose. A smile glittered in his eyes. She may have to kill him. “Did the bad guys have a lair in the sewer, or something? Did you have to swim there?”

 

“No.” She was close to growling at this point. Her own father was teasing her after a long day of superheroics. It was outrageous! It was – it was a scandal! It was... kind of nice, actually. Not that she was going to tell him that. “Armsmaster has a raft in his halberd, and we rowed there. I smell, I'm hungry, and I am _this_ close to falling asleep standing up.”

 

He smiled. “I can help with...one of those. The rest, you're on your own.”

 

“Dad...”

 

“Kidding. Scoot on upstairs and get a shower. By the time you get back down, I'll have some food ready. You can tell me all about your thrilling heroics then. Deal?” He very pointedly did not offer a hand for her to shake.

 

That time she actually did growl. “Deal.”

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

She'd been on the news.

 

That bore repeating: she, Taylor Hebert, had been on the news. Yeah, she was in costume and yeah, she was far from the only hero given screen time, but still...none of _them_ were in her living room, in her pajamas, watching a rerun of the day's events. Which was weird. She wasn't entirely sure why, only that watching herself do the same thing from a different angle was very much outside her realm of experience. With the minor exception of home videos, though she didn't count them because of the overwhelming sense of embarrassment that came with those particular tapes. Her ninth birthday party in particular. _Anyway_ , she managed to climb from the depths of her memory in time for the footage to cut from Glory Girl shoulder-checking the tank to the very same news anchor who'd reported Mush's breakout those few months ago.

 

His delivery hadn't changed much either. Last time, when reporting that particular piece of news, he'd had the same calm, measured tones he did now as he talked about how the deconstruction of the Archer's Bridge Merchants would affect the criminal element of Brockton Bay. She glossed over most of it, picking up the worry that the absence of the gang would give the other two the freedom they would need to really duke it out, and also that it was generally believed that with the Merchants gone, the Docks area could start to be rebuilt to its former glory. That put a smile on her face, a small one with a good amount of self-satisfaction. Justly present, she thought, given that she'd help make this opportunity possible.

 

“Sweetie?”

 

“Yeah, dad?”

 

“Did I tell you how proud of you I was?”

 

Her smile widened into one of joy and that fierce, pulsing warmth in her chest she felt could be called love. In the dim light of the living room, with the soft electronic glow of the television casting its light on the wall across from it, she lounged on the couch with the best dad anyone could ever ask for, and all was well. Mostly. She lifted her legs up and dropped her feet on his lap. He raised his eyebrows at her. She looked innocently back. “My feet hurt.”

 

He grumbled, but he smiled. Then he gave her a foot rub. _Then_ , all was well.

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

Now that everything was all said and done, Taylor had something to ask herself. Not the most important question of her life, but one that was fairly important all the same: now what? The Merchants were done for as an organized gang. The members who hadn't been at that final showdown were in the wind and would either disappear into the vast criminal ether or be conscripted into another gang. If one of the capes had escaped arrest, it might be a different story, but they hadn't. None of them had done anything worth being dropped in the 'Cage, but they were definitely enough of a nuisance to be more securely locked up than they would otherwise be. Not to mention that nobody cared enough to bother breaking them out. She snickered at the thought. Too dangerous to leave alone, not dangerous enough to break out. What a situation to be in.

 

She _could_ have gone to get her costume from Sabah, had the girl herself not delivered it, along with a half-dozen donuts and rented movie, the day after the battle. It now lay neatly folded in her dresser, Taylor's own way of just sort of dropping clothes into the drawers not being good enough for a superhero costume. After that, Sabah had... _attacked_...the haphazardly stored clothing around the room, using her powers to create a minor chaos of flying clothes before giving Taylor a smug look and and a “See how easy that was?”

 

“You cheated.” Her words had been muffled by delicious glazed pastry, but delivered clearly enough to earn a scowl, some grumbling, and a few thrown pillows before the point was acknowledged. The movie hadn't been anything in the action genre, thankfully, she'd had her fill for a little while, and forgettable enough that she could no longer remember its title or what it was about.

 

Trip down memory lane aside, she still needed to answer her own question. Well...find a answer that wasn't 'I have _no_ idea'. Taylor sighed and folded her arms behind her head, crossing her hands between it and her pillow. She tried not to think how nice it would have been to have Ghost here to help her. Not because she didn't think it would help, but because it just served to remind her that he was gone. Another breath came and went, taking the bitter sting of loss with it. She lay on her bed as the sun streamed bright yellows and oranges in through her window. Lately she'd been keeping the lights off until night and the window open. It helped keep the itchy tension that drove her to go and seek and climb under control.

 

_Oh, the hell with it_ . She climbed out of bed and went to find her shoes. Maybe something cool would be happening down at the Boardwalk. And if nothing cool was happening, maybe something interesting. Maybe she could pick a fight with one of the Enforcers, see how good they were beneath that monolithic suit. 

 

Maybe not.

 

Definitely not.

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

This was much better. Granted, the pervading lack of direction hadn't gone anywhere, but there was something about sunshine and bright blue skies and the vaguely stagnant smell of seawater that made it seem...smaller, somehow. Easier to deal with, at the very least. Maybe seeing everyone walking around and going about their various businesses gave her perspective. Or maybe it was just that on the walk down to the bus stop and the ride over she'd realized that she didn't have to decide right away. It sounded stupid, even to her, but that simple fact brought a lot of relief. Whatever the reason, she was a lot less tense in general as she sat on her bench, let the breeze tug gently at her hair, and had herself a nice iced tea while she engaged in some people-watching. There weren't an incredible amount of them, but the decent scattering of tourists wandering around with their hats and their cameras was heartening to see. Standing tall in their black suits and sunglasses, the Enforcers funneled people around them through their very presence like stones in a river.

 

So lost was she in the crush of humanity that, were her ears not enhanced, she would have missed her phone ringing. As it was the tone was faint enough to be chalked up to her imagination, and there was a part of her – that contradictory part that wanted nothing more than to sleep all day and eat everything – that told her she was correct, her phone wasn't ringing, go back to people watching. She set her iced tea to the side, wiped the condensation on her pants, and dug out her phone. “Hello?”

 

“ _Are you near a computer?_ ”

 

“Hey, Sabah, how are you? Me? I'm great, just got a _huge_ project done and I'm really feeling the relief. Anyway, what's up?”

 

There was a pause. “ _Okay, fine. Let me start again: are you near a computer?_ ”

 

Taylor rolled her eyes. “I'm at the Boardwalk. So no.”

 

“ _You should fix that as fast as you can._ ” There was an urgency to Sabah's words that Taylor had just now picked up on. It roused something in her, something that had her sitting straighter and looking around to see how fast she could get out of there. She kept her voice calm, though.

 

“Should I be worried?”

 

The response she got wasn't exactly encouraging. “ _Honestly, I'm not sure. Uh...how to put this...you're aware of Parahumans Online?_ ”

 

Her brow wrinkled. “The cape forum?”

 

“ _That's the one. You've got a thread._ ”

 

“...I have a what?”

 

“ _A thread. Where people talk about you. Well, about Guardian. Anyway, that's not the important part._ ” It's not, Taylor wanted to ask? “ _What_ is _important is that someone has messaged you on this board. Someone calling themselves uh, what was it? Oh, yeah. Panoptica. They want to meet you._ ”

 

There was really only one thing to say. “I need to get to a computer.” There were some things that had to be seen in person, after all, and Taylor had the sneaking suspicion that this would be one of them. Also, that she would dearly wish she hadn't, but...that remained to be seen. With a forlorn look at her iced tea, destined to remain unfinished, she stood and made her way home.

 

=+= Chapter 13: Complications =+=

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got nothing to say here, except thanks for the bookmarks, comments, and kudos.


	14. Make Like Carnegie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something smells bad, someone looks good, and a conversation is had.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie**

 

The message, which was actually a thread post, read like this:

 

_Hey there, bright eyes!_

 

_Got an idea I want to run by you. Can we meet? No harm either way. Mildly urgent. PM with answer soon, please._

 

_T_

 

Not the most informative message, to be sure. Also, 'bright eyes'? Last time Taylor checked, which was when she'd brushed her teeth this morning, there was nothing especially bright about her eyes. They were dark, wide, brown, and she didn't think about them too much, but when she did the word 'bright' never came up. Maybe it was similar to the way guys called each other 'chief' or 'boss' in conversation. Like a kind of catch-all nickname. People online did that too, didn't they? She wasn't real sure. Most of her conversations of any sort before she met Ghost, and subsequently Sabah, weren't exactly what you'd call open and friendly. Almost exactly the opposite, in fact. Still. No point in dwelling on _that_ , she had a decision to make. Or she would, were she able to move on from the oddity of being addressed as 'bright eyes'. It was like a brain stutter. She looked around her dad's office, as if expecting him to jump out of one of his – well, her mother's – bookcases and agree with whoever T happened to be. Then, in addition to being perplexed, she had managed to embarrass herself. Not a bad accomplishment for two measly little words.

 

She wiggled the mouse, dancing the cursor across the screen before scooting back to kick the chair in a lazy circle, spinning slowly 'round as she thought. Part of her, the part warned to never talk to strangers or get in scruffy white vans with blacked-out windows, wanted to dismiss the invitation outright. Another part, made of Light and the cold, sharp edge of her knife said that she could take anything anyone threw at her. That anyone who tried anything would end up as ash drifting through the air. A third part, all slowly growing confidence and cautious optimism, decided that whoever this person was, the odds were good that they were on the up-and-up, so to speak. Then there was a fourth, which was still confused about the whole eyes and brightness thereof thing.

 

Once more lazy orbit to consider, and she came to her decision. Scooting back to the computer, she clicked on the link provided in the message and began to type.

 

=+= Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie =+=

 

This would be the first time she wore her costume in public. It would be the second time she wore it. The first had been at Sabah's insistence to see if everything fit the way it was supposed to and didn't pinch anywhere, which was a thing that could happen, evidently. It hadn't felt real, that time. Now, though, standing in front of her bathroom mirror with her cloak's hood pulled up, causing shadows to fall over the upper half of her face? It felt real. And it felt _good_. She turned this way and that, admiring the swish of fabric across her back and at her calves. Today, her knife rode at her thigh, pressed flush against her leg with hilt pointed up. Easy to draw, easy to put away, easy to see. A statement and warning in one six inch piece of steel – _I can use this. I will if you make me_. Not bad.

 

Panoptica, T, or whatever they were called, had suggested a dive bar out on the edge of town as a meeting place. Somer's Rock, it was explained, was a sort of neutral ground for independents such as herself to meet and hash stuff out. Taylor, on the advice of Sabah – who called the place “an insult to shitty little booze holes” – and the urging of her own instinct, rejected it. If there _was_ an intent to ambush her, she wasn't going to make it easy. With that in mind, she offered a back alley not far from the Boardwalk, and in turn was rejected on the grounds of it being too public. They ended up with a place neither were happy with, which her dad assured her was the element of a good compromise. That great monument to bad judgment, weight gain, and people too cheap to buy actual food.

 

No, not Fugly Bob's.

 

McDonald's. Rather, the gutted building a mile from the Docks that had once been one. The whole area was full of abandoned buildings. This one, chosen because of its relative isolation from the others and its wide, open parking lot, would be their meeting point. With one last look at herself, she shouted that she was heading out to her dad and jumped out the window. She didn't _have_ to, technically. It was just too tempting to pass up. She landed with a flex of her knees, having become accustomed to leaping from second story windows, and darted off into the afternoon.

 

One thing her research had forgotten to mention about the meeting place: it smelled. Not the perfume of the Merchants, with which she was lamentably familiar. This was...dirty floors and burnt cooking oil and the accumulation of sweat and body odor. The windows, after they'd been broken, had been boarded up. Then the boards were stolen, leaving the square building looking oddly menacing with the shadowed holes in its walls. She couldn't see or hear anyone inside, and took that to mean she was first on the scene. Which meant she had the unenviable task of waiting, and there was no way on Earth she'd be doing it inside. She crouched, shifting her feet to find a good grip, and vaulted herself into the air. The trim along the roof's edge had long since fallen away, leaving tacky strips of asphalt and gravel behind. Her hands slapped down on the roof, sending up impact clouds of dust, and she levered herself up to land in a crouch. That done, she found a place to sit that wasn't clearly visible and settled in. She didn't have to wait long. Less than five minutes, going by her watch. It wasn't a staggering entrance, as entrances went. A pale brown sedan pulled into the parking lot and out stepped...

 

Whoa.

 _  
I didn't think I was gay_ , Taylor thought, _until right now_.

 

=+= Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie =+=

 

Pale blonde hair, almost white, shone and curled down to her shoulders. Deep, bright green eyes peered from the dark fabric of a domino mask, snapping with intellect and humor. A slender, toned body hugged _very_ tightly by a black-and-purple bodysuit. Boots covered and shaped calves of smooth muscle, and Taylor wasn't so struck that she missed the knife handle protruding slightly. A belt was wrapped around T's hips, the sleek black lines of a pistol riding at her side. Gloves covered her hands to near-completion, leaving only the tips of her fingers exposed. A smile tugged at the pink curve of her lips, the kind of smile that would cross the face of someone who knew something you didn't. Always. Then she began to walk, and the only word that came to mind at the motion was _slinking_. She was all smooth grace and invitation, and Taylor wasn't sure it was on purpose. She didn't know if she wanted it to be, either.

 

Her mouth went dry and she found herself unable to blink. A heat, like nothing she'd felt before, pooled hot and languid in the pit of her belly. Sweat prickled her palms, her heart pounded in her ears. It seemed to her, just then, that there wasn't enough air to breathe up on the roof of the gutted, abandoned McDonald's. They came too fast, her breaths, scrambling her thoughts and robbing her of the composure she'd worked so very hard to muster for this. Once it was gone, the floodgates on her brain opened, the images conjured within were lurid, explicit, and worst of all...enticing. Images of long, pale, naked legs tangled with hers. Of searching, clever hands and smiling, pink lips. Warm, wet kisses on peaked, aching skin. A shudder went down her spine and a quiet gasp escaped her.

 

 _This is_ so _not the time, Taylor_. _Get it together!_

 

She ground her teeth, muscles in her jaw flexing, exerting her will on her own libido. She could fathom it later, she could... _deal_...with it later. Right now she had a meeting to attend. A meeting with an incredibly appealing blonde with a tight, tight costume, a mysterious agenda, and no name. Only a letter. T was now close enough to her perch to spot her, and lifted a hand in a cheery wave. Taylor wiggled a hand in return, stood, walked to the edge of the building, and stepped off. Luckily, she'd experienced the malfunction of her cloak flapping up over her head when she left her bedroom window earlier, so she was ready this time – grabbing the sides as she fell, landing, and then walking forward as if she were in complete control of herself.

 

“Hey, there!” T's smile, if anything, grew. “I'm Tattletale. Thanks for meeting me.”

 

Taylor swallowed, glad for her hood's hiding the pink in her cheeks, and intended to introduce herself. What she said was, “Why'd you call me bright eyes?” There was a moment, or maybe an hour, of silence. Then, “Never mind. Uh...forget I said that. I'm Guardian.”

 

Something in Tattletale's smile changed. It had been an impersonal thing before, almost generic, if such a word could be applied to a smile. Now it was warmer, somehow. Personal. She offered Taylor a hand, who took it. “Nice to meet you, Guardian.” Her grip was stronger than expected, solid.

 

“Nice to meet you too. Not to be rude, but what was it you wanted to talk about?”

 

Tattletale dropped the handshake and didn't move back. This was worth noting, thought Taylor didn't know why. “Right to business, then.” Had there been another option? “Should we go inside? We could have eavesdroppers.”

 

The fingers of Taylor's knife hand flexed and she fought the urge to look around. “Are you expecting them?”

 

“Always.” Came the reply. It seemed paranoid, and some of that thought must have shown, because; “It's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you. So...yeah. Let's go inside.” With that, Tattletale walked past and boosted herself in through a window. Taylor shrugged to herself and followed.

 

=+= Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie =+=

 

The inside of the McDonald's looked terrible. There was a caking of dirt and grit on the floor, staining the whole think an unpleasant shade of brown. The tables and chairs were long gone, either removed or stolen, leaving behind only the bolt holes drilled into the floor. Those pieces of wall, placed to break up the flow of the room, were nothing but slowly rotting studs and a few rusty, exposed nails. Over the counter, still present and mostly hole, the back half of the store was completely empty, cleaned out long ago. The smell wasn't any better inside than out, sadly.

 

Tattletale made a quiet, grossed-out noise before spinning around. “So!” She hopped up onto the counter, crossing her legs and drumming her fingers on her knee. “I bet you're wondering what this is all about.”

 

Lacking any place to sit herself, and oddly unsure what to do with her hands, Taylor folded her arms across her chest. “Among other things, yes.”

 

“Well...” The word dragged out, green eyes flickering over her face, as if searching for something. “it's like this: I have an idea, and I wanted to run it past you.”

 

Confusion bid her raise an eyebrow. “Why me? And also, what idea?”

 

“I want to put a team together, and I want you to help me.”

 

Taylor blinked. “I...what?” She wanted to say more, and in fact had many questions to ask, but there seemed to be something wrong with her mouth. It would only let her make confused noises and half finished thoughts. “Team...me?” See?

 

“Yeah,” Tattletale's eyes glittered with the humor barely contained by her smile. At least somebody was enjoying themselves. “you.”

 

“But – but why?”

 

“Short answer?” A shrug. “You're a badass.”

 

Taylor frowned, some composure regained. “How about the long answer?”

 

“The long answer?” Tattletale shrugged again. “You're a badass that people trust. A rising hero who has the respect of Armsmaster and brought down half the Merchants' capes by herself. I can't say either of those things.”

 

If anything, her frown deepened. “You want to...piggyback on my – my street cred?”

 

“I mean, I wasn't going to put it that way, but basically. Not that it's the only reason, mind you, but definitely one of them.”

 

Taylor wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. Or the turn this whole meeting had taken. She turned away from Tattletale to pace, chewing on her lower lip. Not one to pace, not normally, but needs must and all that. Her mouth opened, then closed.

 

“Well?” Tattletale hid it well, but there was a shiftiness about her now, a nervous energy that wasn't present before. It was something in the cant of her shoulders or maybe the intensity of her finger drumming. “What do you think?”

 

“I think...” What did she think? Blindsided would be a step up from where she was, that's what she thought. “I think I need to think. I think.” Then she shook her head like a dog, only instead of water, it was brain fog she was shaking off. “Forget I said that, too. Um. I can't say I'm not tempted, but I don't know enough of...well, _anything,_ really. I need more information.”

 

Tattletale's smile turned just a hair smug. “Well, _that_ I can give you. Sit a spell, Guardian, and let me yarn at you.”

 

=+= Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie =+=

 

What it boiled down to was this: there were entirely too many baddies with kill orders on them that just wandered around happy and free. Which meant that not only were the wrong villains being focused on – Chubster came to mind, people were walking around alive who had thoroughly earned death. Tattletale seemed to take issue with both of these things. She had wanted, she said, to do some _real_ good. That meant going after the real monsters. Nilbog. Moord Nag. The Three Blasphemies. It didn't escape Taylor that no mention was made of the Slaughterhouse Nine or Seven or Whatever Number They Were On Right Now. It seemed an odd distinction to make, and she said as much. The response came too quickly to be anything other than prepared.

 

Tattletale shrugged. “They're on the list, sure, but they can be fought. Normal, though I hesitate to use that word, capes can and have stood up to the Nine, though not without cost. _These_ guys, though, nobody goes after. Nobody even _tries._ Like, when was the last time anyone tried to take out Heartbreaker? Or that asshole down in the Everglades... uh,” She snapped her fingers. “Swamp Thing.”

 

“He actually called himself that?”

 

“ _She_ , actually,” came the correction, “and yeah. The point is, that these guys have waay too much...mythology or whatever surrounding them. It makes them look immortal, or at least untouchable.” Something flickered in the depths of those bright green eyes. Something dark and cold. “ _No one_ is untouchable, and _everyone can_ die. I want to remind these guys of that.” Then it vanished, replaced with a diffident smile. “Of course, the generous bounties on 'em all makes it just _that_ much more appealing. So. That's the long and short of it, Guardian. I'm doing this to make money and the world a better place, though not necessarily in that order.”

 

Taylor took a deep, calming breath in, held it for a three count, then let it back out. Her mind was racing, desperately scrambling to gather and make sense of everything she'd just had dropped on her lap. It was a near impossible task, one made harder by the knowledge that the girl who'd done the dropping was both incredibly gorgeous and less than ten feet away. None of it made for coherent, cogent thinking, and that was she really needed right them. She wanted to say yes, that much was clear. On the surface, it was exactly – and she did mean _exactly –_ the kind of thing being a Guardian was about. Seeking out that which threatened the future of humanity and putting them in the ground. The temptation to agree all but sang to her. Begged her to put her name on this thing and not look back.

 

Two things stopped her. One: every piece of information she had before coming to this meeting _screamed_ at her that what Tattletale was proposing was suicide. Plain and simple. The reason people didn't go up against these guys was that everyone who had tried was dead. Nilbog came to mind. The military strike intended to take him out had exactly one survivor. One. Out of a force of some two hundred and fifty.

 

Two: this was huge. Too big a thing to commit to based on a snap judgment or instinct, no matter how well they had served her so far. She needed to...step back. Get perspective. She needed time. “This is...I don't know what to say.”

 

Tattletale shrugged again. “Say you're in. Or don't. Or say you need to think about it. I said there was no harm either way, and I meant it. You need time? Say the word. I get that this is big, Guardian, and it's a lot to take in. I've had a year to talk myself around to this crusade of mine. It'd be stupid of me to expect you to do the same in – how long's it been – half an hour?” She hopped off the counter. “So...yeah.”

 

“Uh huh.” Taylor didn't know what she was agreeing with, exactly. Needing time, perhaps. “I'm uh, I'm gonna have to think about it. This is – I want to, don't get me wrong, but I do this without talking to my – to some people and there's a good chance _they'll_ kill me.”

 

That brought a smile to the other girl's lips. The soft, personal one. Not the smug one or that weird, diffident almost-smile from earlier. “I bet. Look, you got a pen? I'll give you a number you can reach me at, anytime.”

 

She did not have a pen. On the list of things to have when preparing to go out and superhero, a pen wasn't on it. However, “No pen. I have a good memory, though. Hit me.”

 

Tattletale rattled off a phone number, which Taylor committed to memory. Even if she had the leakiest ability to recall things this side of...someone really forgetful...there were a few things that would ensure this particular piece of knowledge would be all but tattooed to the inside of her skull. She left that meeting, after watching Tattletale drive away, with the sense that the easy part of her day had just happened. Things were probably – no, they _were –_ going to get harder from there. She had to talk to her dad, and convince him she hadn't gone insane.

 

...yay.

 

=+= Chapter 14: Make Like Carnegie =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo doggy.


	15. Hashing Things Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get heavy, man.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out**

 

The field was set. Cubes of ice clinked gently in tall, sweating glasses. Snacks were piled in bowls scattered across the surface of the kitchen table. The radio was set to an easy listening station, smooth music piping in quiet from the old battery-powered box. The field was set. Taylor was sitting on one side, having changed into some sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, and Sabah and her dad were on the other. The light hanging over the table swayed gently from where her dad had hit his head as he sat down. The field was set, and they could begin. If only she could figure out how. Silence stretched out as she came up with and discarded opening statements, leading into minutes as each failure drove her towards complete panic. She dropped her gaze to the glass between her hands.

 

“Sweetie?” Her dad's voice dragged her eyes up. She saw impatience in his eyes – not a lot, but enough to prompt him to action – as well as understanding and a small amount of humor. “You maybe wanna fill Sabah an' me here in?”

 

“Yeah. Just trying to decide where to start.”

 

Sabah snarfed down a pretzel or two, chased it with a gulp of iced tea, and set the glass down with a clunk before drawling, “How about you start with whoever the fu – um, _heck –_ T is.” Taylor wasn't aware her friend was capable of censoring herself, let alone willing to do it. She put that thought aside to answer. 

 

“Tattletale. She said her name was Tattletale.”

 

Mouth pursed thoughtfully, Sabah leaned back in her chair. “Huh.”

 

“You know her?” Her dad directed an inquisitive gaze at the older girl, who shrugged.

 

“Know _of_ her, more like. Story is she's a rogue not unlike myself. Stays out of the fighting as best she can, makes money by offering what she calls 'insights' for a not inconsiderable fee. And uh, this is only a rumor, but...apparently she's pulling all this money together for something big.” 

 

_That rumormonger was spot on_ , Taylor thought, before nodding. “That's her. She approached me because she  _is_ putting something together, and that something is a team.” 

 

Sabah gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes going wide. Behind her fingers, Taylor could see the beginnings of a wide smile. “Is my little baby Guardian being  _recruited?!_ ”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The smile dropped. “You don't sound pleased.”

 

Her dad popped back into the flow of the conversation. “Should she be? As I understand it, there's really only a few groups in the city who are looking for new members, and none of them are on the right side of the law for Taylor.”

 

She dismissed the pang of irritation that rose from being spoken about as if not present. “It's not recruitment per se, it's... she wants me to help her form or – or found a team, whatever the right word is. Get in on the ground floor, was how she put it.” Though she wasn't sure Tattletale had actually said that.

 

From Sabah. “And what exactly is the purpose of this new team of hers?”

 

_Here we go_ , Taylor thought, before answering. “To hunt down and kill every cape with a kill order, then collect the bounties.” She expected an explosion of worry-born anger, protests, and outright demands to refuse. What she didn't expect was absolute silence, save for the quiet, breaking-cracker sound of a pretzel falling out of her dad's mouth. 

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

“Sabah,” her dad turned to ask, “This Tattletale person. Why didn't you lead with how she's _out of her fucking mind!?_ ” He wasn't quite shouting, but it was close enough – and her ears were sensitive enough – to elicit a minor but noticeable startle. From both her and Sabah. Shame crossed her dad's face, and he gusted a breath out his nose. “Sorry, girls. I didn't mean to shout.”

 

“No, no,” Sabah waved the apology away. “I kinda wanna shout, too. This is bugnuts. Like, on a scale of one to ten – this idea needs freaking exponents. It's crazy. You know it's crazy, right?” She directed this to Taylor, who apparently wasn't fast enough in agreeing. “You _don't?_ Why not?”

 

Taylor lifted her shoulders, holding them for a moment before letting them drop. “Because I kind of think she'sright.” Talking quietly and very fast had gotten her out of trouble in the past, so why shouldn't it work now?

 

Because he finally wised up, that's why. Her dad caught and parsed her high speed answer almost as fast as she'd delivered it. “You agree with this girl?”

 

“Well...yeah. She had this notion about how we – like, capes and people in general, I guess – just gave up on trying to stop these guys. We just quit. Like we don't even think it's possible anymore, they're just invincible now. Don't even bother, skip to hiding in fear. They win, end of story.”

 

“People _did_ try though, Taylor.” Sabah's eyes were almost black in the dim light, and very serious. “Everyone who tried, everyone who fought, everyone who stood their ground died. And they died in the worst ways imaginable.”

 

“Ted Bundy didn't kill women and have sex with their bodies?” Taylor's blood was rising, defending an idea she wasn't at all sure about. Which was odd. “Ed Gein didn't fucking _eat_ people? Where are those guys? Dead, that's where. Because someone found them and stopped them.”

 

Her dad cut over Sabah's opening mouth. “Bundy couldn't fly, sweetie. Or turn your bones into acid or lock you in a torture loop forever. Or set the air in your lungs on fire. Those were just people. Horrible, evil people, yes, but people. These guys are not. They're...monsters.”

 

Monsters. The word resonated with her. In a way that went deep. Like a fundamental truth, only not quite. “Yeah, they are. And that's why they need to be stopped.”

 

“I'm not disagreeing with you. About that. _My_ problem is that my sixteen year old daughter wants to be the one to do it!”

 

“Whoa!” Sabah cut in, making a T with her hands. “Time out, Heberts. Getting a little off track, I think. Well, maybe not, but...I gotta wonder why you told us this at all. Crazy idea aside, if you were going to do it you would have.” It was a weird to have someone just _say_ something like that about her with confidence. It was even weirder because Sabah was right.

 

“I...” Taylor went back to looking at her hands. “I wanted to say yes, right then and there in that stinky ex-McDonald's. I wanted to really, _really_ badly. So much it scared me, a little bit.”

 

Her dad still appeared to be getting himself back under control, so it was Sabah who snapped her fingers and pointed. “Could this be a Guardian thing? Like, part and parcel of the whole deal?”

 

“It is.” She could say that with certainty, because she knew the truth of it down to her bones. “It's _exactly_ what being a Guardian is about. Which is, you know, reassuring.”

 

“You're telling _me_.” Her dad's mood was darkening rapidly. His arms were crossed and his head lowered. She knew that look. He wasn't going to let this go easy.

 

“So...uh, now what?” Sabah was looking between her and her dad, apprehension slowly appearing on her face. “We've established that this somewhat suicidal urge of yours comes from being a Guardian, so that's that nailed down.”

 

“Yes,” Taylor wanted to put her head in her hands. Or maybe throw something. This was going _exactly_ as well as she thought. “Except I already knew that. But I'm glad we're all on the same page.”

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

“Don't get snippy with _me_ , missy,” Sabah's eyes flashed. “I'm not the one with the crazy idea.”

 

“It's not _my_ idea!” Though, as established, Taylor was thoroughly tempted to sign on. “It's Tattletale's. She just wants –”

 

Her dad's raised hand cut her off. “Now we really _are_ going in circles. We know what she wants to do, and she's to be applauded for wanting to do it. Trying to drag _you_ into it, on the other hand...” he growled, low in his throat, quiet enough that only he and Taylor could tell. “it's a little...upsetting. I don't know what you want me to say, here.” He shook his head, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “I can't say 'go for it'.”

 

This was not what she'd been looking for, though it also was. She'd been hoping for perspective, someone to talk this through with and not making a decision either way. It had been a partial success. The talking part, at least, was going swimmingly. Somehow, and she wasn't quite sure, decisions had been made and the sides drawn up. “That's not what I'm asking you to do!”

 

Sabah lifted her hands, a gesture of helplessness. “Then what _are_ you asking for, 'cuz if it's not that, I'm confused.”

 

Taylor scrubbed her hands through her hair, dragging them down her face. “I told her I needed to think. That I needed time to make my decision and to run it past some people – I didn't say who, don't worry – and I'd let her know. I guess I'm asking for perspective. And I...guess I'm getting it.”

 

“Yep.” Her dad looked calmer now, though not nearly close to actual 'calm'. “The perspective is that this idea is insane. A good idea, but insane.” He sighed. “But you want to do it.” She could only nod. “...Great. I need a drink.”

 

Silence fell again. He got up and went into the kitchen. Sabah chewed pensively on a potato chip. Taylor drank some of her tea, the ice having almost melted away. The kitchen radio switched tracks. She wished they could do likewise.

  
When he came back from the kitchen, a brown bottle of some local beer in hand, he dropped heavily into his chair. It skidded an inch or so across the linoleum, a rattling, groaning sound that was incredibly loud in the loaded silence. He took a sip, placed it down, and then, “I bet if someone told their parents they wanted to join the army, they'd react a lot like this.” He shrugged. “Because when it comes right down to it, where any parent would come from is that they don't ever, ever, _ever_ want to consider the idea that they might outlive their child.”

 

“Heavy.” Sabah's commiseration came from over her glass, which she was now holding in front of her as if it were a shield. Her look of discomfort was growing by the moment, and Taylor was beginning to wonder if she'd been smart in dragging her friend into this.

 

Her dad's words hung in the air. There was nothing she could say. No platitudes or promises could possibly bear up against the weight of the very real possibility that he brought up. It tore at her, the open fear in his words, and she knew then what had driven his every word since they sat down however long ago it was. She didn't...she didn't know what to do. To say it had never occurred to her would be a lie, but it had seemed strangely distant, the possibility that she could die. Not anymore. It was real and naked and on the table in front of her. No matter how much she wanted to do this, there was a more than decent chance it'd be the last thing she'd ever do. “I...dad, I don't know what you want me to say.”

 

He offered a small, weary smile that left far too quickly. “That you'll say no and go back to being the best hero in the city?” He sighed. “I think we've gotten as far as we can tonight. Let's just...take a step back from all this.” Turned to Sabah. “You gonna be okay getting home?”

 

Taylor wanted to wince at the relief in her friend's eyes. Sabah shook her head, gathering up her things with remarkable speed. Yeah, inviting her hadn't been smart. Damn it. “Yeah, I'll be fine. It's not far to the bus from here, and my apartment's about half a block from my stop, so...” she shrugged. “Besides, I'm a badass. Ain't nobody gonna mess with me.”

 

That brought a smile to Taylor's face. “True, true. I'll...talk to you later?”

 

Sabah nodded, flashing a quick, fierce smile. “You betcha. Later, Taylor, Mr. Hebert.” With that, she left. And then there were two.

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

Not long after Sabah left, Taylor retreated to her room. Her dad had let her go without saying a word. As she went upstairs she heard the TV flick on and the volume turned down until it was nothing more than a dull mumble to her ears. The creak of shifting leather as he shifted position in his chair was almost too loud by comparison. She shut her bedroom door behind her and slumped against it. She sighed, running a hand through her hair. It had been a long day, to put it lightly. Fumbling for the light switch, missing, and giving it up for a bad job, she stumbled to her bed and threw herself onto it. After a bit of rolling and bouncing, she ended up more or less properly oriented. Her phone was dug out of her pocket and tossed onto her nightstand, after which she just lay there and looked at her ceiling.

 

And she hadn't even brought up how she was thinking that she was maybe, possibly, probably gay. For the best, she decided. There were only so many bombshells her fragile house could take in one day.

 

She didn't know how long she lay there in the dark. Well, she did, because the clock radio next to her phone told her. So half an hour of quiet and separation had her realizing that, general and emotional exhaustion aside, things had gone pretty well tonight. The screaming had been kept to a minimum, no ultimatums were dropped, and she hadn't run away from home. Buoyed by that thought, she managed to wiggle out of her clothes, throw them somewhere and ferret out her pajamas from where she'd left them this morning – under her comforter. After that, she kicked the loose blanket down by her feet and stretched. Her muscles burned pleasantly as she held herself still for half a minute, then she flopped back onto her mattress.

 

_I am_ so _tired of talking,_ she thought as her mind spun 'round and 'round, too active for the fatigue pressing down on her to carry her off to sleep.  She didn't want to think anymore, she'd been doing it all day. There had to be a line, frankly, and there was one. Her dad had drawn it and she wanted to respect it, she really did, it was just that her brain just _wouldn't shut off!_ From Tattletale's lovely, lovely legs to the offer she'd made Taylor to how she wanted to hop on board the crazy train so much it scared her. Which was the crux of the matter, she supposed. It wasn't wanting to, it wasn't knowing _why_ she wanted to, it was that she was fine with it. All of it. From killing to knowing she might die.

 

It was terrifying, and though she'd covered a ground not dissimilar from this when Ghost was alive, it was just as visceral a feeling as back then. Sleep would be a long time coming, if it did at all.

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

Well, she'd been wrong. She _had_ slept last night. Not a lot, and not well, but still. Enough to function. Well, maybe not. Bottom line – she was awake. And kinda reluctant to go downstairs. She wasn't afraid, not really, but she didn't want to walk down into another tense, awkward conversation. There was a limit, you know? Only a certain number of those per day, and it just so happened that hers had been reached just eight short hours ago. Her reluctance to leave the safety of her room came from how little the random quirks of life cared about what she was willing to deal with this morning. Plus, her dad wasn't even awake, she would have heard him, so there was no reason for her to...stay up here and hide.

 

With a sigh, she levered herself up out of her warm bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She hated being defeated by her own thought processes. She scrubbed at the sleep in her eyes and, when that didn't help, splashed a double-handful of cold water on her face. That did it. Now _very_ alert, she went about her morning routine – complete with scratches and stretches – dug some clean clothes out of her dresser, threw them on, and headed downstairs. The kitchen/dining room still bore the evidence of last night's talk and so she went about clearing it up. She dumped the glasses, tossed out what was left of the snacks, and had gotten everything more or less squared away. It was while she was deciding on which brand of cereal would be better for a lazy-girl breakfast when she was joined by a groggy and less-than-aware version of her dad. “Morning, dad.” She delivered the greeting quietly, though she wasn't sure why.

 

Her dad grunted in response, tantamount to a _Good morning, Taylor_ , and shuffled over to the coffeepot. It must have been the power of sheer habit that guided him through the process, because his eyes were mostly closed and she wasn't sure he was actually, totally awake. She took her bowl of cereal to the table, and without meaning to she ended up in the same seat she'd been in earlier. A moment and a spoonful of Frosted Flakes later, and her dad dropped into the seat across from her. He took a long, slurping sip of his coffee, steam condensing into a brief fog across his glasses, and sighed. There was a quietness in the kitchen then, broken only by the scooping clatter of her spoon against the bowl and her dad's slurps and sighs. Maybe it was awkward, maybe it was only Taylor who felt awkward. Either way, the silence weighed heavier and heavier until she felt compelled to say something.

 

There was a small problem, though. What on Earth was she supposed to say? _Hey, sorry about last night and all that stress I added to your already stressful life. I don't mean to, really, but..._ and then she would shrug helplessly. Okay, so maybe she shouldn't say that, and also should put a halt to the pity-party she was starting to organize for herself. Luckily, or maybe not, the coffee served its purpose and woke her dad up enough for him to be capable of human speech. “Okay,” he sniffed. “I'm awake now.”

 

She mumbled into her cereal bowl, “I'll call channel 6.”

 

He gave a single, close-mouthed laugh, more a snort than anything. “Well, since you fed yourself, _I_ get to have my very special salsa-and-eggs omelet all to myself.”

 

“But!”

 

“Nope, not sharing. Sorry!”

 

“But!”

 

“Can't hear you, sweetie, I'm cooking in here!”

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

After her dad had evilly, cruelly, and spitefully not shared _one bite_ of his delicious smelling breakfast, she made him do the dishes by employing a simple and convenient avoidance technique: by leaving them behind and going to pout in a dignified sprawl on the living room couch. To retaliate he sang songs from his favorite 80s musicals, off-key and at a volume that could charitably be called 'deafening'. It wasn't a typical morning, but it was close to the ones she remembered from a few years ago. Only Taylor's mom had been there singing just as badly and with just as much enthusiasm as her husband. After he was done torturing his only daughter, he came into the living room to pick up her feet and take their space on the couch, placing them on his lap after.

 

She informed him of the current state of events. “I'm not speaking to you right now.”

 

He laughed. “Sorry, my pipes are a little rusty. I'll do better next time.”  
  


This was bad, and alarming enough, for her to make a liar of herself not six seconds later. She lifted her head up to glare at him and say, “Don't you dare. I'll...I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it. Count on it.”

 

He tugged her big toe and smiled. Then, after a few minutes of companionable silence, ruined everything. “So about what we were discussing last night.” A pit opened in her stomach, and out of it crawled a barbed-wire ball of anxiety. She said nothing, only nodded. “I stand by what I said, I can't give you permission or approval. It's not...I just can't. But I know this is important. I know it – I know you really want to, and I know that the fact you brought this to me instead of hiding it makes me so unbelievably _proud_ of you. And I know that, if you decide to do this, you'll do more than be good at it. You'd be great. So while I can't say yes, I'm not going to say don't. So...um...that's – that's about it. I love you, baby girl. Never doubt it.”

 

She threw herself into a hug, burying her face in his chest, mumbling that she loved him, too in his shirt.

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

Taylor stared at her phone, the number she'd memorized was punched in, and her thumb hovered over the green button. Here it was. “Moment of truth.” She spoke to no one, and her thumb dropped. It rang once.

 

Twice.

 

“ _Hey hey hey, Guardian! What's the word?_ ”

 

Her voice was calm. _She_ was calm. “I'm in.”

 

She could hear the smile in Tattletale's voice when the other girl responded. “ _Excellent!_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 15: Hashing Things Out =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many talk here, much discussion. Is that a meme? I don't know memes. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy all the talking.


	16. The Ground Floor is Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a french fry gets mutilated, some dust gets kicked, and somebody opens a door.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty**

 

She knew it.

 

She just _knew_ it.

 

There was no way on Earth or Heaven she would be able to do _anything_ related to her and Tattletale's venture before Sabah dragged her somewhere and extracted detail after detail from Taylor's feeble, overwrought brain until she was satisfied. This time, the arena was the same outdoor cafe they'd eaten at after fighting off Strongman and his band of merry skinheads. She, Taylor, was fresh off her commitment to the new team and buzzing with nervous energy because of it. It didn't show overmuch, but it did show. Her foot was tapping a steady beat on the curve of one of the table's metal legs. The fingers of her off hand were accompanying her foot on her thigh. Even more than normal, she was itching to move, to _do_. It was almost unbearable. Almost.

 

Across from her, looking at her with dark, hooded eyes, Sabah was unusually quiet. In opposite of Taylor's antsy movements, she was still and sparing in her motions. She moved her pursed lips from one side of her mouth to the other and slowly spun her fork between her fingers. Something was turning in her thoughts, something that caused the normally gregarious, energetic girl to lose both of those qualities. Taylor didn't know what to say, and Sabah didn't say anything for a long few minutes until, “Are you _sure_ this is what you want? You're not being blackmailed or manipulated or Mastered?”

 

“Yes, I'm sure, and no, I'm not.” Something, some...instinct...for lack of a better word, had her dismissing the idea outright. “Come on, Sabah. We've only been friends a few months, yeah, but you gotta know by now I'm not doing anything I don't want to.”

 

Sabah raised an eyebrow.

 

Taylor sighed, and conceded the point. “ _No one_ wants to go to school. That doesn't count.” She picked at a fry, tearing little pieces off it with her fingernails and letting the pieces fall back to the plate. “I'm – I'm hoping you're in my corner on this. It's going to be bad enough, going after these guys, I don't...I don't want to be fighting my friend, too.”

 

Sabah made a soft, quiet sound, full of something Taylor couldn't quite name. “Oh, Taylor. Is that what you thought this was about? That I was going to try and stop you?”

 

She shrugged helplessly. The sound came again. This time she could name it, and she named it _hurt,_ and she didn't like it coming from her friend. She couldn't – or wouldn't – lift her eyes from the shredded french fry on her plate, not until a warm, smooth hand covered hers.

 

“Look at me, sweetie.” She did. Sabah managed to pack sadness, understanding, and frustration into a single look. “I'm not the kind of person who tries to tell their friends what they can and can't do. I'm also not brave enough to be the kind of person who looks at the monsters in our world and goes, 'yeah, I can take 'em'. The fact that you are? It's fucking _awesome,_ and it's scary as shit. But, yeah, I'm in your corner, Taylor. All the way, 'til the wheels come off and the end of the line.” She smiled softly. “All that jazz.”

 

Taylor sniffed, smiling back. “Thanks, Sabah.”

 

“Of course, you're also out of your mind, but that's nothing new.”

 

She laughed. “You just had to ruin it, didn't you?”

 

“Hey,” Sabah let go of her hand and sat back. “can't let things get too weepy, I'll ruin my make-up. So, let's change the subject. Is Tattletale hot, or is she _hot?_ ”

 

Taylor groaned, face burning, and dropped her face into her hands.

 

=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

She was saved from having to answer that question by the devil herself calling. The default ringtone – she never had worked out how to change it – binged and bonged from her pocket until she dug it free and flipped it open, shooting Sabah a triumphant and not-at-all apologetic look. “Hey, Tattletale.” Only after she said that did she realize that a public restaurant may not be the best place to have this conversation. But she couldn't skip out on paying for her half of the meal, so she decided to lower her voice and hope no one was actively eavesdropping.

 

“ _And how did you know it was me?_ ” Tattletale's voice was light, airy. Teasing. She rolled her eyes.

 

“Because I'm psychic, duh.”

 

“ _Huh._ ” Taylor got the impression Tattletale was smiling. “ _How 'bout that?_ ”

 

“What I can do for you?”

 

“ _You're the psychic, you tell me._ ”

 

Taylor snorted a laugh into the phone and tucked an errant bit of hair behind her ear. “You want to BASE jump from the Medhall building? That's dangerous, and illegal. Shame on you.”

 

Laughter rang in her ear. It was...nice. Throaty and warm. “ _Not today, I'm afraid. Forgot my parachute at home. We're just going to have to settle for picking a base of operations._ ”

 

“Oh, no, however will I cope?”

 

“ _I'll be there, of course._ ”

 

That sent a flush through Taylor, and she fought to keep it off her face. Damn that girl. “That makes it worse, not better.”

 

“ _Ha ha, very funny._ ” She rattled off an address. “ _I'll be there in costume, by the back door. Meet me there?_ ”

 

“Sure thing. See you.”

 

“ _Bye bye, now._ ”

 

Then she hung up. Taylor looked at Sabah for the first time since answering the phone and saw...something. It looked a lot like – like _jealousy_ , but what did Sabah have to be jealous of? She ventured a cautious, “You okay?”

 

“Hm?” Just like that, it was gone. Sabah perked up. “Fine, why?”

 

“You looked...” She let it go. “Never mind. I have to go, we – ”

 

“I heard.” Sabah waved a hand, tugging her plate close to her. “Go and let your freak flag fly, baby. I hear slapping her ass and buying her Taco Bell works wonders.”

 

“What.”

 

“You heard me. Scram, you got an appointment to keep.”

 

After digging enough to cover her half of lunch out of her pocket and tucking it under her plate, Taylor did just that. She left all thoughts of Sabah's weird behavior and even weirder advice behind her.  


=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

Much like their first suggested meeting place, Taylor wanted to reject their first suggested base out of hand. Last time, it was because she didn't trust the walls to lack ears. This time, it was because she didn't trust the walls to _stay upright._ It was a warehouse, though not nearly as large as the last one she'd been near. Roughly the size of a gas station, it was a rickety, rusted congregation of corrugated sheet metal and filmy, grime-covered windows. The road that led to it was more pothole than asphalt, with weeds sprouting from the gaps. The front door had been painted over at some point in the past and was completely incapable of being opened as a result. This was why Tattletale said the back entrance. It certainly wasn't because there was a risk of being spotted. The building, henceforth called the Rust Bucket in Taylor's mind, was three-quarters of a mile from the meanest, barest part of the Docks, which put it around four miles from civilization. In that regard, it made for a perfect base of operations. It also made her want a tetanus shot just from looking at it.

 

She'd run home to change, having not been willing to shell out for a purse big enough to hide her costume in, and as such made it almost impossible that she'd beaten Tattletale there. The pale brown sedan just barely peeking out from the back of the building made it a certainty. After making sure that her cloak's hood sufficiently covered her eyes – though there'd never been a problem with that before – she crossed the road and made her way down the side of the building. The walls gave off near visible waves of heat, having spent a merry afternoon baking in the sun. That was probably why she could feel a little heat in her cheeks.

 

As she approached she heard a familiar sound – that of someone drumming their feet on the ground. Her ears were sensitive enough that she could pick up the individual pieces of gravel bouncing away, if she so wanted. That would also lead to her hearing everything else nearby at an incredible volume, so she refrained. She could also pick out the rhythmic hum of music, faint enough to make her think that Tattletale had brought something to amuse herself. Oddly, that little tidbit went a ways towards settling her. Like it made things a bit more real. Made getting around the back end of the sedan without being spotted easy, and a head of white-blonde hair, bobbing to a beat, came into view. Tattletale was in full costume – catsuit, gloves, mask. Pistol. And headphones, connected to an MP3 player in her lap.

 

Something occurred to Taylor then, a curiosity. This time, she was able to keep it from flying out of her mouth. _Didn't that suit get hot_? What she did instead was clear her throat, loud enough to practically be a close-mouthed cough. Tattletale jumped up, hair flying wild as she spun around, free hand making an abortive jerk towards the pistol at her side. When she saw Taylor, she relaxed and smiled. She pulled the headphones out of her ears and tucked them...somewhere, along with the device they were attached to. “Hey, hey, hey Guardian!” she spread her arms, as if to encompass the glory of the building behind her. “What do you think?”

 

Though she was able to refrain from commenting on Tattletale's catsuit, she wasn't quite as good at restraining her skepticism. “I think it's a miracle it's still standing.”

 

Tattletale grinned widely and did a strange sort of hop forward. Almost too close for comfort. Almost. “That's _exactly_ what we're looking for!” Taylor's brows rose, incredulity writ large on her face. “No, seriously, think about it! You want to build a massive tower that juts up into the sky and shouts 'I'm here, blow me up!'? You don't, because you're probably not crazy. What we're looking for is something exactly like this, something you'd never in a million years see and think 'cape base'. Well, there's also one other thing.”

 

“And that would be?”

 

“A basement, and another one below that. Two floors underground. Come on, I wanna show you!” Tattletale, practically vibrating with energy, darted in to seize Taylor's hand and drag her inside.

 

=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

Inside the warehouse looked like outside the warehouse, only hotter. It was completely empty, the sound of their footsteps echoing slightly as they walked across the filthy cement floor. As she was being guided along, Taylor looked around to try and spot the door that would lead to these alleged basements. Also, one or two glances at the roof, because she still didn't trust it. She found nothing. It was only when the sound of feet-on-cement became feet-on-metal that she realized her mistake. Tattletale let go of her hand, leaving it feeling strangely empty, to walk over the trapdoor and kick the debris covering it away. “A trapdoor?”

 

Tattletale nodded, grinning widely. “Yeah! Come on, it's rusty, so you're gonna have to help.”

 

Together, they bent over the door and grabbed the handle in a four-handed grip. Taylor looked over at the other girl. “On three?”

 

The response she got came with a grin, “Lift with your legs!”

 

She counted it out, and they heaved the door open. Not that it came willingly or without making a horrendous screeching sound right out of the mouth of a horror film monster. It echoed around the room, unwelcome and unappreciated. As they pulled it up it came towards Taylor, forcing Tattletale to let go and herself to take a few steps back to lower the door to the ground gently. She'd already suffered one loud noise and was in no mood for another. Once done she found that the palms of her gloves, and indeed her exposed fingers, had been dusted with flaked rust. It came off with a few brushes against her pants – oh, was she going to hear it from Sabah – and then she went to see exactly what she'd just help unearth.

 

About what she'd expected. Concrete steps leading down into a vast darkness, full of mystery and the unknown and...well...probably some empty rooms or something. Some _more_ empty rooms. Maybe six steps down she spotted a very old looking light switch, sprouting a track of wires leading into the dark. She went down the steps – it turned out to be five, but whatever – and flipped it up. With a crackle and an electric hum that she was familiar with, a bulb burst into faded, orange life. From behind her, she heard Tattletale give a little laugh and say, “And she said, let there be light, and there was, and it was good.”

 

She turned to look over her shoulder. “You are way excited about this.”

 

The look she got back was doubting. “You're not?”

 

Taylor shrugged, “Fair enough.” and turned back. As they descended, more lights popped on overhead, gradually illuminating a staircase with a slight curve to it. It couldn't be much farther to the bottom, given how the whole city was only a few dozen feet above a huge underground lake. A little grin crossed her face. Even if all they found was rat shit and some old newspapers, this waspretty damn cool.

 

=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

It was pretty clear to her that they were the first people to find this place in a long time. The air was thick with dust and a stale, musty odor. The overhead lights cast shadows into the room's corners, and a thick coating of dust covered the floor. It looked like this room had once been some kind of storage, and from how there were no air vents, whatever was being stored hadn't been very sensitive. The far wall was host to a sunken door, the kind with a wheel set in the center instead of a knob. A bulkhead door, she thought they were called. The wall to her left just had an open frame, through which was another room, equally as empty.

 

_This place needs a lot of work. A_ lot _of work. Maybe even too much work._

 

Tattletale crossed behind her to go into the room to the left, while she went to inspect the door. Her cloak swished behind her, kicking up dust eddies as she walked. She rapped her knuckles on the metal, then dropped her hand, sliding her fingertips over the wheel. It was smooth and cool and oddly clean. Stainless steel, maybe? It was out of place, that much was becoming clear. Her fingers curled into a solid grip, and she gave the wheel a spin. Unlike the trapdoor, it went smoothly, pulling metal bars out of niches in the wall and swinging inwards with nary a sound. Another staircase was revealed. One had drifted down to the hilt of her knife as she took a single step over the threshold.

 

Suddenly, there was light. Bright, white light. She startled, no more than a clench of muscle. The source was a strip of LEDs set in the ceiling, going down only a half-dozen feet and then forward into a gray steel hallway. “Hey, Tattletale!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I found something you're going to want to see!”

 

Rapid footsteps and a single, muffled curse preceded Tattletale's arrival. Taylor scooted over as much as she could to give the other girl room, but it was still a pretty tight fit. The idea of moving down a stair to make more space never got any traction. She watched the other girl look up at the lights, then down the stairs to the hallway. “Whoa. This is unexpected.”

 

“You didn't know about this?”

Tattletale shook her head. “Not at all. I was thinking we'd find something we could do up ourselves, or get some help. I know a guy who does base construction for hero groups, I thought maybe I could pay extra to keep ours on the down low, but this...this is completely unexpected.” She turned to smile widely at Taylor. “Let's have a look around. See what we've stumbled into.”

 

Taylor gestured down the stairs. “Lead on.”

 

After sticking her tongue out, Tattletale did just that.

 

=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

What they found was surprising. Also, more extensive than Taylor was expecting. Although...her expectations had been blown away by the two rooms they'd found before this, so at this point anything was more than she was expecting. It was two larger rooms, set end-to-end and about half a football field in total size. Attached to each large room were three smaller rooms. All of them were the same gray steel, all of them had the LED strip in the ceiling, and all them were completely empty. It was completely quiet. The lights didn't hum or buzz, even to her ears, the air conditioning made sound as it came through the vents. The only sounds she could pick were that of her and Tattletale's feet and the gentle swish of her cloak. Eerie didn't begin to cover it. “What is this place?” She didn't know why she whispered. Her voice was unnaturally loud and resounded in the emptiness.

 

“I think...” At least Tattletale was whispering too. “I think this was going to be somebody's base.”

 

“Then what kept them from finishing it?”

 

A shrug. “Could be anything. They got recruited, they got killed, they ran out of money, they left town because their spouse found out they were cheating. It's not like the turnover rate in this city is small. Without knowing more, I can't say for sure.”

 

Taylor hummed and spun in a circle. She could see the potential. Training room, equipment lockers, computer banks, big projector screens on the walls. Big, squishy armchairs. They could definitely make use of this place, and it would cut down on their prep time by – well, the exact amount escaped her, but it would be a lot. It was kind of strange, though, to be building on the foundation left behind by someone else. Not wrong, necessarily, just...odd. She turned to find Tattletale running her open hand down one of the walls. “You don't think this is a little weird?”

 

“Which part, the finding the partially built base underground or the appropriating it for our own use?” When she put it like that, Tattletale kind of had a point.

 

“Both, actually.”

 

“Well...” Tattletale dragged the word out, frowning at the floor and tapping her lips with a finger. “Yeah, it's weird, but not as weird as you might think. For example, I know for a fact that Uber and Leet's current base used to be a workshop for a Tinker who never got a chance to debut before, well – they're gone now. And before you helped clear them out, the Merchants were squatting in an old ABB warehouse. Property changes hands here all the time, is what I'm saying.”

 

“Using villainous examples is reassuring.” Taylor felt that needed to be pointed out. “Seeing as we're sort of trying to be heroes, here.”

 

Tattletale met her eyes for a moment before looking away. “Okay, fine. I admit that I can't think of any examples of hero teams doing the same thing, but I _know_ there are some who have, it's impossible to go forty feet nowadays without tripping over something cape related. But if this isn't your style, or you just plain don't approve of making our base here, say the word. Gets my vote, though.”

 

Taylor closed her eyes, for a moment so incredibly tired of being forced to make life-altering decisions. Seemed like there wasn't a day that went by where she wasn't making some horrendously important choice over another. Charge the Merchant tank or hide behind the heroes? Approach the fabric based Tinker who wasn't actually one or try and put her own costume together? Say yes to Tattletale's crazy plan or let it go by? _I don't want to have to choose anything else_. She must have kept her eyes closed, and been quiet longer than she thought, because Tattletale piped up again, a slight edge of something that might be _worry_ to her voice.

 

“Really, though. There are plenty of places we can look at, I just thought we'd start with the best place, I had _no idea_ this was down here.”

 

Taylor opened her eyes and smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “It's fine, I just needed a minute to think. If we didn't use this place, how long would it take us to set up somewhere else?”

 

“Months, probably. Longer, depending on how long the backlog is.”

 

“And if we set up here?”

 

Tattletale shrugged. “Three weeks, maybe a month. There's a lot to do, but having the basic construction already done? It puts us ahead by a _lot_.”

 

“Okay, then,” Taylor nodded, decision made. “Let's get started.”

 

=+= Chapter 16: The Ground Floor is Dirty =+=

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> ...  
> ...  
> ...
> 
> What? Oh, right! Notes.  
> Um.  
> Hi!  
> ...  
> I'm very tired.


	17. Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone runs on a treadmill, someone gets a present, and a backstory is given.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 17: Pick A Scumbag, Any Scumbag**

 

It took a month, in the end. A month for six miles of cable to be laid, for screens to be brought in and mounted on wall-attached stands, for furniture to be dragged down and assembled. John came by with a rented flatbed stacked high with training gear he wouldn't admit he bought for them; floor mats and heavy bags and weights and a treadmill or two. Everything a budding superhero team needed to stay in shape. A few days after that he brought in a rack of wooden practice weapons so he could work the two of them through their paces every day or two. They had some big, cushy swivel chairs that they spent a good amount of time racing from one side of their base to the other and more access to information than Taylor thought was legal. There was a pair of rooms set aside for the sole purpose of sleeping, to be furnished and decorated as each of them saw fit. It was a good start, but it wasn't nearly enough, and there was something preventing them from getting what they needed.

 

They'd run out of money. All of the cash Tattletale had pulled together selling 'insights' had looked so large as to be inexhaustible. It was certainly more than Taylor had ever seen in one place. It had also more or less flown out the window, given the speed it had been spent with. It had been a stroke of luck, really, that John had refused payment for the training equipment. They wouldn't have been able to pay him. It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings, being broke before they really got started. That didn't really bother Taylor. What did was that _she_ , not Tattletale – and she had her suspicions about why – had to be the one to go down to PRT headquarters and fill out a forest's worth of paperwork. You'd think the digital age would lead to there being _less_ of that kind of thing, not more, but apparently not. 

 

So that took most of a day. On the bright side, she did get a chance to say hi to Armsmaster and Miss Militia. She also got to meet the Director of the local Protectorate and came from  _that_ meeting with the distinct impression that Emily Piggot, the sole survivor of the doomed raid on Ellisburg, was a woman not to be crossed lightly. She wouldn't be at all, if Taylor could swing it. Leaving the building, with the setting sun shining directly into her tension-headache afflicted face, she had reflected that it was very forward thinking of her to preemptively take revenge. 

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =++

 

Her opportunity for gloating came sooner than expected. She was in the base, doing pull-ups as quick as she possibly could. It had been through some careful experimentation that she'd learned her increase in strength was based at least in part on her own muscles, which in turn separated her from most Brutes. Fitting, really, since she wasn't actually a parahuman. The difference was this: a Brute's strength came from their power, and no amount of exercise or training would increase it. A Brute with a rating of 5 would always be a Brute with a rating of 5. Taylor wouldn't. If she trained, if she exercised, her strength would grow. She was already superhuman, and with effort would go beyond it. It was something she was in favor of, given what she'd chosen to do with her future. When it came to hunting monsters, nothing less than the peak of her ability would be acceptable. She finished her third set of three hundred and dropped to the ground, arms sweating and burning with effort.

 

Since she had the base to herself, at least for now, she had her hood and scarf down, leaving her head completely exposed. She was breathing hard, but not wheezing, and she wiped sweat from her brow and went to gulp some water. It had taken a bit to design an exercise regime that would actually affect her, but between her, Tattletale, and John they'd been able to work something out. It looked like the combined schedules on an Olympic basketball team, but it worked. For now. Her keen ears picked up the sound of the far bulkhead door opening, though she'd taken pains to oil its hinges. The second door, now the only separating her from Tattletale – who else could it be – was motion activated. She snugged her scarf up under her nose and moved to finish her work out; a headlong sprint on the treadmill with the thing set to max speed and elevation.

 

Why work out in full costume? Because she'd be fighting in full costume. The door opened and admitted Tattletale, talking with exaggerated calm into a cell phone. Taylor bared her teeth, not really a smile but an expression of victory. Revenge was hers, a ha ha ha ha.

 

Oh, God, she'd been spending too much time around Sabah.

 

“...no ma'am, we have no villainous connections.” Tattletale rolled her eyes and mouthed _I hate you_ as she passed the treadmill. She couldn't see Taylor's bared teeth shift to an unrepentant grin. Taylor did it anyway. “Nor do we intend to develop any. I can't say for sure whether we'll commit to Endbringer battles at this time, ma'am. We're just getting started. Yes, we object to using our images for marketing or licensing purposes. Yes. Okay, then. Good evening.” Tattletale snapped her phone closed and dropped it. She closed her eyes, massaged her forehead, then glared. “You gave the PRT my phone number.”

 

“Uh huh!” Taylor's calves were beginning to burn, as were her thighs.

 

“You also made _me_ our primary contact with the PRT.”

 

“Yep!” Breathing was starting to be an issue. Her heart was starting to race. Good. She was a third of the way in.

 

“This is revenge for something.” Tattletale's bright green eyes were narrowed and thoughtful, also slightly angry. “I don't know what, not yet, but...” she shook a finger at Taylor. “I will, and then my retaliation will be merciless.”

 

As best as she could while running all out, Taylor shrugged. She wasn't wasting breath on talking, but she communicated her sentiment with eyebrows. _Bring it on._

 

“When you're done here, come over by the big screen. I have an idea on who our first target could be.” With that, Tattletale sauntered off. It couldn't be said for certain if there was an extra sway in those hips or not. Regardless, Taylor almost fell off the treadmill.

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

There was more space than stuff in their base, and Taylor didn't expect it to stay that way for very long. She padded over the bare metal floor to join Tattletale in the area of the first room that they'd just sort of decided would be where all the computers and tech were. Tattletale had her feet up on her desk, a tablet in her lap into which she was tapping commands at a pretty good clip. Above her head, the projector whirred into life and displayed a single image on the nearby wall. An image that required a second look, and a frown. “What exactly am I looking at?”

 

“Swamp Thing.”

 

Taylor stepped closer to the image, narrowing her eyes. The black-and-white photo was showing a congregation of mud, leaves, wood, and what she suspected was bone that might – _might_ look human. It definitely didn't look female, or gendered at all. In one of it's...paws...it had the lower half of a human body. Thankfully, the picture was poor enough to prevent her seeing anything too detailed. The upper half was disappearing into the monster's jagged, lopsided mouth. “She...eats people.”

 

Tattletale hummed in agreement. “Yes, although it's more a reason of _who_ she ate rather than the fact alone.” She tapped her tablet a few more times, and an image appeared of a clean-cut man with intense, dark eyes and an overhanging brow. He looked like a bulldog. “This was Deputy Director James Tagg. He had gone to Prestonville because he'd heard rumors of a new cape there, and wanted to recruit them before anyone else could. He went in person because he felt the personal touch gave him a better chance of success.”

 

“Did it?”

 

“No. Tagg was an asshole, and it got him eaten. After Swamp Thing was done with him – that's not him in the picture, by the way – she flooded Prestonville and disappeared into the Everglades. That would be the end of the story, except for two things. First, Tagg was on the fast-track to being made Director of his division – he may have been a dick, but he was popular among a certain group of government officials – so when it came out what happened, there was a very quiet, but very intense outrage. Tagg's friends in government started pressuring Director Costa-Brown to issue a kill order, make an example of Swamp Thing. She resisted. Tagg wasn't well loved in the PRT, and one murder does not a monster make. At least in her eyes.”

 

Taylor turned to see Tattletale regarding her with a solemn look in those green eyes. “What changed?”

 

“A fanboat tour went missing. Then the rescue party went missing. A National Guard unit was sent in, and they lasted long enough to take that picture before they too vanished. The kill order was signed later that day. But since Swamp Thing doesn't have the media coverage or bounty of someone like Heartbreaker or the Nine, she gets to play Queen of the Marsh more or less in peace.”

 

She brought her hands together, tapping her fingertips against her lips, pulling one between her teeth. No pacing, not yet, but it wasn't far away. “How much more do we know?”

 

Tattletale grinned. It wasn't pleasant. “I can write this bitch's life story. You name it, I'll find it.”

 

“Everything.” Taylor turned back to the photo of ruined, empty Prestonville. “I want to know everything about her. We find that, and then we use it to kill her.”

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

It took Tattletale less than two hours to find, ferret out, steal, and extrapolate the entirety of Swamp Thing's life. During that time Taylor sat cross-legged on her desk, idly twirling her knife between her fingers, and waited patiently. In body at least, her mind was – as always – a different story. This time her thoughts were focused towards her gear, or rather the lack thereof. She had her knife, and that had so far been more than enough, but now that she was stepping into the big leagues she was thinking something more was required. More, in terms of both offense _and_ defense. But how did one go about getting such gear, especially while being broke?

 

“All right. The sad, angry life of Shanelle Parkman – now known as Swamp Thing – is ready for your perusal, O fearless leader.” Tattletale put a wry twist on those last three words that made Taylor consider that perhaps she had been a little forceful.

 

“Thanks, Tales, and, um...sorry...about earlier.”

 

Tattletale's eyes danced. “What are you talking about?”  
  


Heat rose in Taylor's cheeks, and she wished she'd chosen to raise her hood instead of her scarf. “When I got all, you know, bossy.”

 

A hum, and a playful tap of a finger on full lips. “Don't know what you mean.”

 

She sighed. “This is your revenge, isn't it?”

 

Tattletale shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. If it wasn't, now is when I'd say something like – _it's nothing to be sorry about, I got a little intense there, too_. And if it was, I'd just shrug and say _maybe, maybe not_.” A pause. Then, “You wanna hear this bitch's story or not?”

 

“Run it. Minion.”

 

“Clever.” It was said in that tone that meant the exact opposite of what was said.

 

Taylor wondered, as Tattletale prepared a PowerPoint presentation, of all things, why they were bantering and bickering like this. All lighthearted and not at all heavy and solemn. Maybe it was like a few months ago, when she hit the Merchants for the first time. The half hour before had been full of her dad and Sabah doing hilariously terrible Top Gun impressions into their radios to keep her calm. This felt like the same thing – using humor to lessen the weight of what they were about to do. She was brought out of her musing by her partner clearing her throat, and beginning.“So. Shanelle Parkman was born to Dante Parkman and Juanita Arantes twenty-eight years ago in Prestonville General Hospital...”

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

Shanelle's life had been hard and painful, almost from the very beginning. Her mother abandoned her when she was six, saying it was because of Shanelle. Two years passed before her dad started drinking. Another year before he started hurting her. By the time of her tenth birthday something was already broken in Shanelle Parkman's little head. The onset of middle school, and of puberty, did her no favors. The hormonal firestorm that swept through her left her feeling angry, distant, and confused. She had a few dedicated bullies that made an effort to add alienated and unwelcome to that list. This continued for the next three years, and on her fifteenth birthday it seemed like – however briefly, things might turn around. She got herself a boyfriend, and was carried away on the joyous waves of puppy love. Her dad stopped beating her, started a twelve-step program and tried to atone. It worked, too. For a little while.

 

Disaster struck. Her boyfriend cheated on her, openly, brazenly, with one of her former bullies, who returned to their old activities with a vengeance. School became hell and her grades, which were mediocre at best to begin with, began to slip. Her dad fell off the wagon, and that very night broke her arm and two ribs. A year passed, and Shanelle's already tenuous grasp on stability wavered when she was mugged at knife point by a girl in a ski-mask. Failed by her father, who refused to believe that she'd been robbed, she filed a report with the police. She named who she suspected robbed her, because the girl's efforts to disguise her voice were lackluster at best.

 

She was ignored, sent home with a token promise of investigation. It was that night that she went to the Walkway – an elevated, quarter-mile wooden path in a loop in one of the milder sections of the swamp. She looked down into the fetid, stagnant water and thought about falling in. Vanishing into the mud. She felt alone and worthless and that the entire world cared not a whit for her, so why not fall and end everything?

 

It was more than enough. Shanelle Parkman's grasp on stability, on _sanity,_ shattered. Losing her mind and gaining powers in the same moment, her entire being obsessed with thoughts of revenge and of punishment. A week later one of the girls who bullied her fell off the Walkway and drowned. Nobody believed her boyfriend, Shanelle's ex, when he claimed that the water and mud rose up and dragged her in, burying her alive. He drowned three days later in the exact same place. The police suspected a parahuman's involvement, and Shanelle to be the culprit. Their suspicion reaches James Tagg, who saw an opportunity.

 

The rest? History.

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

“This is...” Taylor felt something shift in her gut. Something like nausea on a level deeper than physical. She wanted to throw up as well, but that was sort of secondary. She pushed her chair away as she stood suddenly, violently. Seat spinning, it rolled away across the room and was forgotten. Tattletale rose to her feet then – cautious and slow – as if to avoid spooking a skittish and dangerous animal.

 

“Guardian?” It was her voice – not the tone, but the concern and rising worry – that flashed _Ghost_ across her thoughts. Her throat tightened, and her eyes burned. She was breathing fast, jaw clenched. “Everything...okay?”

 

Words were still beyond Taylor for the moment. She shook her head, hair flying. It took a force of will to slow and deepen her breaths. The silence dragged out for a minute, Tattletale seemingly content to wait in peace, and the sting of tears slowly faded – though one escaped, trailing down her cheek to soak into her scarf. The constricting lump in her throat took another minute, and then she was finally calm enough to talk. “That girl. Shanelle – Swamp Thing – whatever,” she waved a hand at the projected image of Shanelle Parkman's learner's permit. “That was _me_. I was in the same place as her. It could have been _me_ on that screen.”

 

Tattletale's eyes widened for a half-second. Later, Taylor would reflect on the girl's poker face, but now was too upset to do so. When Tattletale responded, it was halting. Cautious. “It could have. But – it _isn't_.”

 

Taylor wasn't really listening. “Switch out 'being abandoned by Mom' for 'Mom being dead', turn my dad into an alcoholic, abusive jackass, and it's like looking into a mirror.” She sighed shakily. “Why did Shanelle do those things? Why didn'tI?”

 

A shrug from Tattletale. “I don't really have an easy answer, and I'm not entirely sure there is one. I mean, her story isn't too much different from mine, either. But we're in here, and she isn't, so...” she shrugged. “Choice, maybe? She chose to let all that shit break and we didn't? Were we just born with a better, stronger moral compass? I don't know.”

 

One deep, calming breath later. “I don't either. It's just...we were calling her a bitch earlier, and for a minute I refused to think of her as human, and now...” She chewed her lower lip. “now _I_ feel like the bitch. But – but it doesn't change anything, does it? We can wonder about it until we're blue in the face, and it won't alter the fact that Shanelle – _Swamp Thing_ – killed all those people. And that we are going to kill her.”

 

Tattletale's green eyes locked onto hers, searching for something. “Sounds like you haven't changed your mind.”

 

“I haven't. It just hit me, you know? Everybody on our list, every cape with a kill order, they all started out as someone else. But – who they are now? The world will be better off without them.”

 

A silence fell, one that stretched for a seeming eternity, but was more likely half a minute or so. Tattletale nodded, then poked a thumb over her shoulder. “I'm gonna...I'm gonna go start putting things together. If you need anything else, um – come find me, or give me a call.” She started towards her desk, turning back. “For what it's worth, I think we're doing the right thing.” A wry twist of her lips. “Obviously.”

 

Taylor huffed a laugh. The reassurance was more welcome than she was willing to admit, and more effective than it probably should have been. She waved her hands at her partner. “Away with you. I – ” in one her pants' many pockets, her phone trilled. “– have a phone call to answer, apparently.” She dug it out. _Though how I get signal twenty feet(ish) underground is a mystery for another time_. “Hey, John.”

 

“ _It's John._ ” His voice rumbled, static crackling, in her ear. She fought the urge to laugh, or maybe roll her eyes. No matter how many times they talked about how Caller ID made identifying yourself somewhat unnecessary, John always started phone calls the same way. He did so, she suspected, because he wanted to. “ _Heard you were headed out soon. Got something I want you to take along. Can you meet?_ ”

 

Taylor looked around the base – _their_ base, now. The air was still a little tense, still a little emotionally charged. Clearing out for a while could only do good. “Yeah, I just finished up here. Your dojo?” She called it a dojo because it annoyed him. Slightly. Just like him continuing to beat her ass in training annoyed her. Slightly.

 

“ _Not a dojo. See you in ten._ ” Then he hung up.   
  


=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

The case was as about four feet long, and a bit less than two wide. The shell was black, lacquered plastic with a shiny aluminum hinge and clasp. There was some minor scuffing on the corners, white scratches faded by time and a recent cleaning. It had been waiting for her when she reached John's – having gone home to change first. She looked to John, getting a nod from him that she interpreted to mean _open it_. So she did, sliding her fingers along the cool metal to the clasp, flipping it open with a rasping clack, and lifting the case's lid.

 

It was beautiful. A beautiful, beautiful bow. Unstrung, it formed a loose M in the felt interior. The wood was polished and a warm brown, with a single streak of a darker shade winding 'round it from tip to tip. Worn brown leather was wrapped around the grip in the middle and without knowing how, she knew it was for left or right handed shooters. Her lips parted, a happy gasp escaping her, then curled up into a smile. She wanted to touch it, to run her fingers along its smooth, sanded length. “It's yours.” John's voice rumbled from above. “Go ahead.”

 

Taylor reached into the case and curled her hand around the bow's grip. The leather flexed beneath her grasp as she lifted it out of the case. It was both lighter and heavier than she was expecting, and it fit her perfectly. Joy raced in her heart, something fierce and primal inside her. The Hunter in her was practically singing with joy as she held this. Then something else raced through her, and things got a little weird.

 

In her soul, where her Light dwelt, there was a surge, both terrifyingly unfamiliar and known to her. It was like when she wreathed her knife in lightning, only not. That was like harnessing a storm and binding it, turning its fury on her enemies and moving with the speed and freedom of the wind. This was the light of darkness, the void that only became noticeable when there was Light to illuminate it. It was the power of emptiness. A grasping nothing. A beckoning oblivion. It was awe inspiring. It was terrifying.

 

It poured through her, this Void Light, down her arm and into the bow. She watched as bands of deep violet coursed from her hand into the wood – wrapping around it like chains and sinking in. It happened again, and a third, great rushing pulses of energy until the bow was its own brilliant source of purple luminescence. Then it began to change. The curves of the bow flattened, thickened, and its entirety lengthened. She was left gasping, feeling strangely empty. Then it caught fire, the grip she was holding remaining solid while on either side were flickering lengths of violet flame. There was a string, too, also made of flame. She ached to touch it, draw it back and let fly...what? He had no arrows.

 

She did it anyway, and was only somewhat surprised to see another length of violet flame materialize – an arrow. Her heart was pounding, thundering in her chest, and she let go. The arrow lanced out, flashing through the air to impact the far wall of John's place. It crumbled into a ball, roiling and curling around itself before vanishing with a rush of air. In shock, she opened her hand. The bow vanishing, and that feeling of emptiness vanished. She knew that she could call her bow to her at any time. Unless, probably, she was using her knife.

 

There was silence. She could barely hear herself breathing. John may as well have been a statue. Then it was broken. By her.

 

“What the fuck was that?”

 

=+= Chapter 17: Pick a Scumbag, Any Scumbag =+=

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is where I'm finally just going to flat out say it: 
> 
> Thomas Calvert, The Man Who Would Be Coil, is dead. The only surviving member of the Ellisberg(Ellisburg) raid is Emily Piggot. 
> 
> Other than that, I hope you continue to support me and this story. Your continued comments and bookmarks and all of those good vibes mean a great deal to me.


	18. F*cking Florida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a road trip is had, a book gets thrown out a window, and things get real.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 18: F*cking Florida**

 

In the end, there was nothing for it; they were going to have to drive. Fifteen hours in Tattletale's car, packed near to the gills with gear – most of it wasn't Taylor's – was an exercise in, among other things, patience. There was only so many times information could be gone over before it started appearing on the back of your eyelids, and she had passed that point somewhere in Virginia. Not to say that she in any way had not intended to memorize every scrap about Swamp Thing that Tattletale had gathered. Taylor was new to the whole tactics-and-strategy thing, but she knew that fighting in an area specifically tailored to her opponent's powers was a bad idea. Not for the first time, she thought about Thing's powers. A Shaker, one with control over swamp water – specifically that, something about chemical or bacterial composition – and mud in a radius around her, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty feet. Also, a Changer, the ability to transform into that humanoid, mud creature once she gathered enough material. To top matters off, she also had a Thinker power that let her sense anything her mud or water was touching.

 

If you were in her part of the swamp, she knew. That meant finding a way to lure Swamp Thing out of the Everglades. She had to find a way to draw her target out. But how? There had to be a way, she just hadn't found it. She sighed, a quiet hiss out through her nose. Her breath steamed the window her forehead rested against. “Gonna drive myself crazy before we even _get_ there.”

 

She'd mumbled them, but was loud enough for Tattletale's ears to pick up. Radio piping in hits from the late 1980s and 90s, fingers drumming merrily along on the steering wheel, it was something of a miracle she had been heard at all. “Something on your mind?”

 

Taylor lifted her head from the window, leaving a smear of skin oil and slight condensation behind, and shifted in her seat to face Tattletale. They weren't traveling in full costume because it would be ridiculous. Imagine a cape in full kit pumping gas and checking their phone, doing their absolute best to pretend that they weren't the epicenter of an earthquake of awkward. To avoid that, it was casual clothes for both of them, with some surprisingly comfortable domino masks to protect their identity. She shook her head. “Not really.” A pause. “Well, maybe.”

 

Tattletale huffed a laugh, changing lanes to skirt around a minivan going ten under the recommended minimum speed. “So long as you're clear.”

 

Ears burning, cheeks dusted a light pink, Taylor grumbled. “What I  _meant_ was that I'm not really sure it's a 'share with your teammate' sort of problem.” 

 

A shrug. “Fair enough. But, uh, hey – you know, it  _is_ kind of a two way street with this sharing thing, and you just spent the last twenty minutes listening to me gripe about dealing with Pervy McCheaterface. So...yeah. It's your turn.”

 

Pervy McCheaterface(not his real name) had been a serial adulterer with a good amount of money and an even bigger interest into getting into Tattletale's catsuit. He'd bought insights from her, usually about how close his wife was to catching onto him – she already had, and was preparing for divorce – and then tried to leverage that into some kind of weird sexual thing between the two of them. Man had a thing for capes. Or spandex. Either way, creepy. And pointless.

 

“Not sure they're on the same level.” Taylor eventually divulged. “ More like, driving myself up a wall trying to figure out this thing we've got coming up.”

 

“What, the fight? Don't work yourself into a lather about it. Once we get there, we'll set up our own little forward operating base and work the details out.”

 

Not exactly reassured, but content that Tattletale had a good idea in not obsessing, Taylor dug a book out of the pack at her feet and picked it up where she left off. It was a terribly written mystery-horror found on a truck stop rack, and a great amount of fun was had mocking the mile-wide cliches and flat, melodramatic characters. At least until Taylor got so disgusted that she threw it out the window when they were outside Charleston and insisted it was her turn to drive. Tattletale was laughing too hard to do anything but acquiesce.

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

Taylor hadn't been to Florida since she was six, and her parents decided that it was part of every well-rounded childhood to get sunburned and sand-chafed in uncomfortable places. The end result was that the Heberts had spent a week in Naples getting their vacation on and discovered something about themselves; they were not beach people. Not even a little. Out of stubbornness and a willingness to suffer for their offspring her parents had stuck the week out and flown a cherry red, tired, and very cranky Taylor home, ne'er to return. Until now.

 

At some point the road leading to Prestonville had been blocked off. Three concrete K-rails were laid end-to-end across the road, bleached and crumbling under the elements but enough of a deterrent for anything but spray paint. FUCK YOU SWAMP BITCH was sprayed across the side of one is artful, looping letters, with a clenched fist punching out of the C in 'bitch'. The town they'd passed through to reach this was a one-horse town if ever there was one. One gas station, one post office, and a restaurant in the center of town, and a spiderweb of roads leading out to a scattering of homes. They'd managed to pass through unmolested – nobody curious as to why two teenage girls in masks were driving towards an abandoned town.

 

Taylor had pulled the car over in front of the turn-off for Prestonville and stepped out. A wet, muggy breeze had picked up, tugging at strands of hair that she wished she'd put up in a ponytail or bun. The road beyond the rails stretched out over the horizon, bordered on one side by trees and the other by a wet, marshy plain. Not quite swamp, but close. It was overcast, and hot. Behind her, the passenger door opened, dispensed Tattletale, and closed with a metallic _thump_. She didn't look away as the other girl joined her. She didn't know what she was looking at, or for. She was just staring down an empty, neglected road.

 

“Hey, Guardian?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I'm not strong enough to push that rail out of the way.”

 

“I'll get it. Just...in a minute.” Taylor wasn't sure why she wanted that minute. From the impatient shifting beside her, neither did Tattletale. After the seconds ticked past, she brushed her palms and went to heave one of the half-ton K-rails out of the way.

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

Abandoned towns, Taylor decided, were _incredibly_ creepy. Prestonville was no exception. The lawns were either overgrown, spilling over their neat boundaries in tangles of weeds and seed blades, or yellow, drowned, and dead. The sidewalks were caked with dirt and cracking, crumbling like the K-rails three miles back down the road. Green sprouted through the cracks, moss and white-capped mushrooms doggedly reaching for the sun. It was a similar story for what remained of the roads. The same thick caking of mud, long dried, almost burying the asphalt beneath it. Here and there were clumps of growing something. It was the buildings that really made the creep factor. Most didn't have doors. Almost none had windows. A few were missing roofs. They dotted the place, rotting and water-stained, like tombstones. Marking where a life ended. The Everglades taking back land.

 

The silence wasn't the worst of it, because this skeleton of a town wasn't quiet. It was also mostly bugs. They hummed and buzzed, little wings carrying them about their buggy business, creating a concert of sorts. Every minute or so a bird would call out, warning or invitation as the situation dictated. It wasn't human life, but it _was_ life. So it wasn't the silence that sent a razor's edge of tension down Taylor's spine. Something did, something that had her curling one hand around the handle of her knife while embers of purple Light flickered in the palm of the other.

 

“Guardian?” Tattletale paused, looking around. She'd turned the car off and stepped halfway out. The keys were still in the ignition. If a quick getaway became necessary, they were ready. Tension was slowly binding itself into Taylor's muscles, and a rising certainty that _something_ was wrong. “Everything okay?”

 

It was like back at the K-rails, only this time, because she was in the middle of it, surrounded by it, that she could name it. “We're being watched.”

 

She heard Tattletale's heart skip a beat. “What? How? There's one one else here.”

 

Taylor shook her head, turning a slow orbit on her heel. “Don't know how, exactly, but...we're being watched.” She chewed her lip, and closed her hand. The Light flickered out, her bow returning to its place within. The grip on her knife, however, remained. “We can't stay here.”

 

There was a moment of silence. “We were never going to.” Tattletale's voice was full of disbelief, not directed at Taylor, but inward. As if she couldn't believe she'd forgotten to say this. “I just thought, you know, we might want to get a look at the place. In person.” A pause. “Which seems stupid, all of a sudden.”

 

“We should leave.” Taylor barely recognized her own voice. Calm, flat. Sharp. “Right now. We should leave and not come back until we're ready to fight.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.” Tattletale dropped back into the car and started it. The rumble of the engine was oddly loud and reassuring. Some of the tension coiled throughout Taylor's body faded. Some. “We have to inform the local PRT Director what we're going to do, anyway. Better late than never, eh?” The last was delivered light and fragile.

 

Taylor had barely gotten in the car before the engine roared, dragged them in a semi-circle, and peeled them out of town. Tattletale's hands were shaking, trembling where they clenched the wheel. Concern cast some doubt on Taylor's earlier certainty. “I could have been wrong. Something about that place rubs me the wrong way, is all.”

 

“You weren't wrong.” Tattletale's voice was as steady as her hands weren't. “We _were_ being watched, and it was Swamp Thing doing it.” Her lip curled back over her teeth in a snarl. “Now she knows we're here. Damn it.”

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

Taylor was waiting to feel foolish. Now was certainly an appropriate time. The shadows of Swamp Thing and Prestonville should have faded in the light of the city and the drab construction of the PRT building. Failing that, they should have been banished by the reluctantly accommodating nature of the Director for the region. Alfred Jones had done his best to talk them out of their intended purpose and then, having failed that, offered a copy of every Swamp Thing related piece of information on file. An offer they graciously accepted. After all, as Tattletale had said as they were leaving, there had yet to be such a thing as too much information. But, for argument's sake, and because it was actually happening, let it be said that, sitting cross-legged on her hotel room bed, she still did not feel foolish. There were more than a few reasons to explain away her earlier mood. The mounting weight of what she was about to do, the nature of an empty town, that kind of thing.   
  


Papers rustled over each other as another manila folder, chock full of facts, was thrown to the floor. Across from Taylor, sitting on the room's other bed and surrounded by more of the same, Tattletale made a sound of disgust. “I can't – I can't believe it.”

 

“Are they wrong, or something?”

 

“No!” Another was picked up, the pages fanned through. “Everything in here says exactly the same as what I found. Hell, some of it _is_ what I found!”

 

Taylor's brows furrowed. “Then...what exactly is the problem?”

 

A sigh. The folder was laid to the side. “There isn't one. My preconceived notion is being shot full of holes, and I don't like it.” Tattletale sniffed, scratched the side of her nose. “Okay, never mind that. Um, before we start going over all of this, there's uh... there's something I want to bring up.”

 

A multitude of scenarios raced through Taylor's brain. Most good, some bad, and a few deeply pornographic, though she ignored those. Largely. “What's on your mind?”

 

“Well, it's like this. We _are_ about to risk life and limb together, and if there was ever a good reason to um – what's the word? – unmask, to each other, this...would be it.”

 

This, Taylor noted, would be the second time a life-threatening scenario would engender her learning a cape's real name. Granted, the finer points of the two situations couldn't be more different, but the flavor was the same. And, on top of that, there was something... _more_...to this. Something that made her cheeks burn and her stomach flutter. Eagerness? Anxiety? She wasn't sure what doing this would mean, if it would mean anything other than itself. Crushes were fun, though by now it might – _might –_ be a little bit more than a crush. Maybe. Tattletale cleared her throat. Oh. Right. “Yeah, you're...you might be onto something. So. Um.” She mustered her courage, calling on all of her bravery, and peeled the domino mask off her face, breathing out in relief as she did. “I'm Taylor. Taylor Hebert.”

 

Tattletale didn't say anything. She wasn't blinking, either. Maybe her power was overloading her with how plain Taylor was? Wouldn't that be nice. It wasn't until she in turn cleared her throat, dusting pink across Tattletale's cheeks and down the curve of her neck, that she did anything. Clever fingers stripped the mask away, peeling off the strings of spirit gum left behind.

 

Oh.

 

Freckles.

 

God, Taylor was hopeless.

 

“Nice to meet you, Taylor.” There was a bright smile and dancing, green eyes. “I'm Lisa Wilbourne.”

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

Time to go back. No avoiding it any longer. She, Taylor Hebert, a Guardian and Hunter, was going to go to the abandoned ruin of Prestonville, lure out Swamp Thing, and kill her. This was how.

 

There were three cars. Two of them were filled with volunteer PRT agents, come to give assistance where and when it was needed. The third had her and Lisa in it, towing behind it a trailer with a dizzying amount of tech – this would be Lisa's command post. A mile behind the three car convoy were a pair of ambulances. Their job was to come in after everything was over and confirm that Swamp Thing was a) genuinely Swamp Thing and b) genuinely dead. Or, if everything went to Hell, their job would be to identify her body and the bodies of the agents who died with her. She tried very hard not to think about that part.

 

As to how they were going to draw Swamp Thing from the Everglades...it wasn't complicated. A Tinkered earpiece radio connected her to Lisa, guaranteed against everything up to a point blank grenade detonation. Through this Taylor would be fed everything she needed to say to drive their target – she found it easier to thing of Swamp Thing as such and not sad, broken Shanelle Parkman – into a blind, murderous rage. The idea being that she would too angry to think straight and leave the place where the deck was stacked monstrously in her favor. As plans went, it didn't exactly fill Taylor with confidence, but then again neither did charging headlong into the swamp to fight somebody with power over them. The latter was guaranteed suicide. The plan could go either way.

 

_No one said this would be safe,_ she reminded herself,  _or smart._

 

Their plan had failed to account for something, it turned out. A mistake. One made by them. Because Swamp Thing had known they were coming, she'd been given time to prepare, and she hadn't wasted it. 

 

“Shit.” Taylor wasn't much for swearing, but today seemed a good day to start. Beyond the K-rail barrier, the road had been rendered completely impassible. It buckled into split, jagged peaks and rose in hillocks of cracked asphalt. Sinkholes, exactly too long and wide for a car to pass over, covered the road like landmines. Puddles sat, rippling in the cool breeze, and it was no bet that if the water were to be analyzed, it would be from the swamps. Her right clenched into a fist, loosened, and clenched again. There was a tremble in her fingers, but not in her voice. “I guess...we're walking.” 

 

On her left, Tattletale only sighed. To her right, the captain of the PRT team swore loudly and walked back to the trucks barking orders at high speed. She turned to look at her partner, her friend, and her massive, lesbian crush, who looked back with somber eyes and said, quietly, “It's just gonna get worse from here.” 

 

There was a pit of fear in Taylor's stomach. A racing heart in her chest. She didn't want to take that first step onto the broken road. She also did. Very, very much. The Guardian in her, the  _Hunter_ in her, itched to run down the road, find Swamp Thing, and laugh in its face as her knife turned it into ash. The oncoming battle sang in her blood.  _You were made for this_ , it chorused,  _now step forward_ . 

 

Taylor stepped onto the broken road, and began to walk. Behind her, eighteen PRT agents and Lisa followed her. Right into the jaws of a beast. 

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

She thought Prestonville had looked bad before, and it had, but had nothing on its current state. The entire place was a maze of mud walls and gaping holes in the ground. Every few feet were what looked like reservoirs full of filmy green water. Thunder rumbled overhead as the twenty of them paced into the town. The agents had their guns up and were checking every direction. Even down, with a handheld ground-penetrating radar. Lisa had her pistol in one hand was staring intently at everything she could, cataloging, inferring, extrapolating. Taylor had drawn her knife and ignited it. The sizzling hum at her was reassuring and steadying. Her bow flickered in the palm of her hand, not quite drawn, but not quite put away. Every nerve in her body thrummed. Her muscles were tense. 

 

The town was quiet. Unnaturally still. 

 

It was broken by the roaring sound of an oncoming wave, the bellowing war cry of the soldier, “CONTACT RIGHT!”, and the mud wall to Taylor's right exploding inwards, whirling in on itself and coalescing. Legs, body, hands. Mouth. No eyes. Thunder rumbled over head. Swamp Thing took a step forward, and chaos spilled free. 

 

=+= Chapter 18: F*cking Florida =+=

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how close this title came to being called "Roadtrippin' with Lisa an' Taylor". I decided not to, because it would ruin the tone even more than the current one does. Speaking of, I mean no offense to the state or its inhabitants and have nothing against either. It's actually Delaware that I can't stand.
> 
> Also, I wanted to give the fight with Swamp Thing its own chapter because anything less is unacceptable. 
> 
> I should take this time to stress that simply because someone says something or thinks something, in no way means that it is true. People are weird like that. Anyway, see you in a week or so.


	19. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing very funny happens. Not even a little bit.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 19: Undone**

 

Taylor's bow materialized in the same instance the soldiers reacted. As a group, they flowed back from Swamp Thing; odd, twin-barreled weapons snapping up. They fired around her, physical blasts of heat rippling from the barrels and impacting the muddy being. Where the shots hit, they dried into cracked clay. She lifted her bow and put her other hand to the string. Her Light gave her an arrow, drawing from the same internal reservoir her bow came from. She drew the string back, aiming for the gaping, silent maw, and released. She'd never used the bow on a living thing before. Which was why it was so puzzling to see arrow splash against Swamp Thing's chest and collapse into itself, just as it had on John's wall. Instinct told her that something _different_ should have happened when she shot an arrow at something living, and yet here it was not doing that.

 

Unless...

 

Lisa beat her to it, shoving soldier shoulders and shouting over the whir-hum-thump of their discharging weapons. “It's a fake! It's a fake!” The clay figure took another step forward, that leg becoming the target of a focused barrage. Taylor dismissed her bow, drawing her knife and arcing lightning down its length in the same motion.

 

“Find the real one, then!” The commander shouted between blasts from his weapon. Lisa spun in a circle, eyes hooded and sharp, flickering her gaze all over trying to find where Swamp Thing was hiding. Taylor darted forward, weaving around a clumsily swung arm to reach the now-clay right leg of the dummy. Her knife, which had split drywall and concrete with ease, dragged through the clay as if something was trying to impede its progress. She called on her Light, coursing more of it down into her blade. The lightning's color changed to white, and brightened. The air around it hissed, and it cut with its previous ease.

 

The leg was too thick to cut through with her knife, but she had done a good amount of damage. Maybe enough. She ducked under another slow, clumsy punch. The movement cracked the pillar the dummy's leg had become. Taylor reared back and kicked out, screaming. Her foot finished the job her knife started, separating the leg from the rest of the body and shattering it in a spray of clay shards, one of which bounced off her shoulder with bruising force. She hissed in pain and danced back, weaving around the soldiers and their heat blasts as they transformed the slowly collapsing mud effigy into a pile of solid clay. “Concussives!” The order came snarled from the commander's mouth, and the soldiers flipped the barrels of their weapons, changing the red glowing barrel for a blue one. “Fire!”

 

Like the sound of a cracking whip, but louder, the soldiers opened fire. Their shots, waving air tinged blue, dug gouges from the mound. Gradually, perhaps unconsciously, they formed a semicircle around it, barraging the clay into a veneer of fine particulate on the ground. The order came to cease fire, and silence fell.

 

Briefly.

 

For it was then that Lisa's eyes widened and Taylor's ears picked up the sounds of a semi-solid mass moving at high speed. Underground. “It's in the sewer!” She knew she would be too late. The manhole cover beneath the former effigy, as well as the surrounding eight feet of earth, concrete and asphalt, _exploded_ upwards with incredible force.

 

=+= Chapter 19: Undone =+=

 

One man died immediately. Due to her enhanced senses and the compressed time her adrenaline fueled nerves had put her under, she saw his head flatten in intimate detail. The manhole cover, directly over which the Swamp Thing dummy had died, was too solid to destroy outright yet too light to remain unaffected. When the real Swamp Thing erupted from below, it sent the hundred pound, cast-iron disk flipping into the air with enough force for its spin to create an audible hum. It smashed into the poor trooper's head, turning his skull into a spray of bone dust, brain matter, and blood. It kept going, carving a V into his torso before stopping. Slowly, he fell backwards, a limp, dead heap.

 

In the _next_ five seconds Swamp Thing demonstrated the difference between itself and something made to look like it. The real Thing was a construct of constant change – flowing from a muddy serpent to a quadrupedal beast to that hunched, devouring monster the National Guard unit had photographed. Her limbs were whips, semisolid until impact, then the point of contact would harden. The soldiers' body armor was Tinkered, and rated to withstand a mid-level Blaster's attacks. Thing's attacks punched through two of them before they could react and pull away.  


During all of this, Taylor herself had not been idle. She alone, it seemed, had the reflexes to avoid those whipping arms. She ducked under one, leaped over another, and had to contort herself into a cartwheel to avoid the third. The honor of taking the fall landed on her shoulders, and she turned her fall into a roll that brought her into a crouch beneath the circular sweep of Swamp Thing's first arm. A scream clawed its way from her throat as she arced her burning blade through the air, shearing through the mud limb and leaving an earthy, burnt stump behind. The rest of it vanished into ash, with only the smell of smoke as a reminder.

 

Thing bellowed, and it was with two distinct tones. One, the high, pained scream of a woman. The second, a bestial roar full of rage. It abandoned its assault on the soldiers then, suddenly reorienting itself to bring that eyeless, gaping face directly at her. In doing so, it exposed the expanse of its back to the heat/concussion guns of her backup. The sounds of fifteen of those rifles discharging followed, and they hit, but were ignored. Which meant either that she had angered Swamp Thing enough to enrage it beyond all sense of pain, or they didn't work anymore. She didn't want to choose a reason, but if she had to, it would be the former.

 

That meant they could win, and that those poor, nameless troopers hadn't died for nothing. A voice shouted, _hers_ , she realized, “You ugly, stupid bitch! Hold still so I can cut your other fucking arm off!”

 

In her ear came Lisa's voice, oddly clear. “ _Keep her busy, Guardian. I need more time to figure out how to beat her._ ”

 

Swamp Thing's arm came hammering down, a straight-over blow that, at the last second, split into five separate, seeking limbs. Taylor skipped back, slamming into the concrete wall of a house and smacking the back of her head into it. Stars spun, and she flailed away two of the five limbs with her knife. The others punched into her chest. There was pain, but not as much as she thought. Dying was supposed to hurt more than this. It certainly had the first time. That was when she noticed something odd about her costume. Specifically, that every single thread was _filled_ with Light.

 

Even while her mind was puzzling over this development her body was still in the fight. Her free hand crushed one of the would-be spears while she used her knife to separate the other two from their originator. Thing reeled back, arm flowing into the mass of its torso, and she took the opportunity to jump to the top of the wall. The uneven, concrete lip was only about half a foot wide. More than enough to leverage a jump. In theory. What happened instead was a twelve foot, top-heavy mud monster plowed through the wall with ease. Her standing ground snatched from beneath her, Taylor tumbled to the ground in the wake of Swamp Thing's destruction.

 

Good news. She most definitely had Swamp Thing's attention.

 

Bad news. It was probably going to get her killed.

 

Obviously, that was unacceptable. Time to change the game.

 

=+= Chapter 19: Undone =+=

 

Her knife went back into its sheath, currently located on her upper arm. Less than ten feet away Swamp Thing realized that she hadn't been crushed, and was reorienting itself again, features – such as they were – flowing across its mass to face Taylor once more. She didn't have time to stand, or move back. Light coursed through her arms as they moved, one drawing a bow and the other an arrow, creating a string and drawing it back. Thing began to charge, dropping to a serpentine form and slithering across the ground. Behind it, a wave of mud drew up and followed. Its eyeless face began to fill her vision, jagged maw opening to engulf her. It was down that maw that Taylor sent her first arrow.

 

The void-Light arrow, closer to a spear in size, sped across and _through_ the entirety of the muddy serpent's body. It carved a howling path through, punching a hole in the mud wave behind Swamp Thing, and passed out of her sight. She heard it impact something, and then another ray of light speared back through the hole the arrow created and lassoed around the head of the mud snake. Its forward charge slowed, giving Taylor enough time to gather her legs beneath her and leap up and over a different house's wall. Stutter-step a few paces forward, turning with bow in hand to wait to be followed. Either through the wall or over it, Swamp Thing was coming after her.

 

Except that didn't happen. The sound of the soldiers' rifles firing doubled in speed and volume, and was followed by screams. Her stomach dropped and she cursed herself for a fool, driving the balls of her feet into the soft earth to gain as much speed as possible. As she ran she berated herself. Of _course_ Thing would choose the closer, easier targets over her.

 

_Fuck!_

 

She cleared the wall with a three foot gap, arrow set to and creating string in the same moment. What she saw was a blood-soaked battlefield. Churned and bloodied mud wrapping itself around bodies and bearing them to the ground, burying them alive. There were maybe a dozen soldiers still standing, and they were paying for that, for it was among them that Swamp Thing wrought Hell. The shape it had taken now resembled an octopus; a central orb with limbs spiraling out. They were flat and thin and sharp enough – fast enough – to cut through armor and flesh like butter. Despite this, or maybe because of it, the soldiers fought on. They moved to cover in areas clear of dirt or mud, slowly building a firing line among the houses to entomb Swamp Thing in its own creation.

 

There just wasn't enough men, or enough time. She could give them some of the latter. Sighting down the flickering, violet-flame arrow, she aimed for the center of Swamp Thing's body and loosed. She saw the full extent of her shot's effect now. It became tethered to the spot and wreathed in looping chains of purple firelight. For a time, it seemed as if the blasts from the heat-concussion rifles were more effective. It wouldn't last forever, it _couldn't_ , she could feel that tether drawing from her reserves of Light to maintain itself. If it didn't end by itself, she would have to do it.

 

She landed, splashing red mud up her shins, and saw that next to her feet was a discarded rifle, and next to it was a too-still mass of black fabric. _Sorry, soldier. I'll make it hurt, for you and everyone else_. Scooped it up, shook the mud off, and found herself flipping the barrels to concussion and shouldering it, moving from instinct. She pulled the trigger, aiming at the asphalt near Swamp Thing's body. Shards of asphalt, some as large as her fist, sprayed through and into the center mass. Though it had no eyes for her to be sure, she thought it was staring at her. It had no mouth, but she was certain it was screaming. Pain, rage, or both. It didn't matter.

 

She grinned at it, a wolf-smile. Full of teeth, and a promise. “You didn't forget about me, did you?” As Swamp Thing reformed yet again to throw itself at her, she mumbled under her breath. “Tails, tell me how to kill this bitch before more people die.”

 

Lisa sounded hoarse, oddly breathy, but Taylor couldn't focus on that. Too busy dodging globes of hardened, spiked mud and leading Swamp Thing away from the soldiers to focus overmuch on anything else. “ _Your wish, and all that. Listen..._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 19: Undone =+=  


It wasn't a complicated solution. It was just impossible.

 

All that had to be done was remove mass from the mud construct while at the same time preventing it from accessing any more. Since Swamp Thing could only transform from human to mud when it had accumulated a certain amount of mass, depriving it of a source and ashing the mud it _was_ controlling would, in theory, turn it back. The impossibility was thus: most of Prestonville was covered in either mud or dirt, meaning that Taylor could not act fast or hit hard enough to overwhelm the acquisition of that supply. She had already removed an arm and at least six fingers, and it had done nothing more than cause pain. The mud she'd turned to ash had been replaced almost the instant it was lost. _If only we hadn't tipped it off_. _If only we'd insisted on coming alone. If only I'd had more gear. If only, if only, if only._

 

She flipped backwards to dodge one strike, then threw herself at a wall to avoid another. A third came at her while her feet were pressed against the stucco surface, so she jumped again. Up and away, over Swamp Thing's head, pulling her feet up out of range of its snapping jaw. She spun, drawing and igniting her knife to embed it in the broad, glutinous back as she fell. It was probably the most damage she'd done so far. Thing reacted appropriately, rearing back and howling at the sky in its odd, two-tone voice. One of its arms punched out, a seemingly involuntary motion, and punctured the wall of one of the more intact houses.

 

Mud spilled out of the hole. Pounds of it, _tons_ of it, flowing and bulking and undoing all of the damage Taylor had done. Before, when it moved on its feet, the impact had shaken the ground. Now, the footsteps shook the air. It was fifteen feet tall, eighteen feet and growing out. Her eyes were dry and her throat clear as she realized that she was probably going to die. It was oddly freeing, and probably explained what she did next. Taylor charged Swamp Thing's massive new form, a wordless battle cry spilling from her lips.

 

Because she was a Guardian, and she was made for this.

 

“Guardian!” The shout, a man's hoarse throat straining to be heard, came from behind the hulking, muddy being. “Use this!” There followed a grunt of effort, and the whistling sound of something being thrown very hard. A sleek, black pistol arced up over Swamp Thing's head, even as it almost idly turned to punch a hole the size of a hubcap through the soldier's chest. It had been a good throw. Too good. It was going to pass a good six feet right over her head unless she did something. She jumped vertical from a standstill, catching the gun and seeing the life-light leave the soldier's eyes. Maybe she imagined it, maybe she didn't, but she would later swear on her life that in his last seconds, that soldier had smiled. Just a little.

 

Rage filled her, then. Burning, fiery hate. Like a sun of pure loathing. People had died, people who had come with her of their own free will, and she didn't even know their names. The stippled, plastic grip fit solidly in the palm of her hand. She still didn't know guns, but she knew this one. Knew it had eleven bullets left, that it was semi-automatic, and that she could shoot the wings off a fly with it if she wanted to. It had been given to her as the last action of a good man.

 

Light, touched by the incandescent brightness of her emotion, began to leave her, pulsing down her arm in visible whorls and loops of golden fire and pouring into the gun – much as the void-light had done with her bow. This was different, in a way she couldn't articulate. It was like the bow had been...capable? Worthy?...of handling her Light, and this little pistol wasn't. Her Light would consume the weapon, use it up at the same time she did. Insulting, really, given how it came to her. Perhaps reacting to this, her Light shifted. A change in tone. The gun would still vanish, but it would fire before it was consumed. Eleven bullets became three, her feet hit the ground, and the pistol was filled with glorious, golden light.

 

The first bullet would go in the head. She aimed thus and pulled the trigger. Incredible heat, straight from the sun's heart, lanced from the gun and took Swamp Thing's muddy head clean off. Her hand tracked down and she fired again. The second shot punched a hole the width of a station wagon through the broad chest. Thing began to shrink. Taylor fired a third and final time. It hit where the pelvic bone would have been and neatly, _brutally_ separated its torso from its legs. Her heart thundered in her ears as the pistol crumbled to ash and the rush of Light faded, withdrawing dormant to the depths of her soul.

 

There was no time to wait. Her knife crackled into burning, white-blue light as she stalked forward. She felt emptier now, that burning rage still present, but lessened. Swamp Thing continued to shrink, and it was a distant realization that the mud around them had either baked to a ceramic-solid material or burned away. Still, its range was much larger than this slowly collapsing shell of a house. So why? A question for later. A dark-skinned, filthy arm appeared first, flopping limply as the mud began to retreat into the gradually appearing form of Swamp Thing's human body.

 

It's _dead_ human body. The head was gone, all that remained was a cauterized length of neck. The ribcage was gone, as if scooped out. The spine was gone, too. Blackened, burnt flesh gaping in hideous parody of Swamp Thing's mouth. The legs appeared separately, first one falling to the side, then the other dropping beneath the body. The scattered remnants appeared over the course of a few seconds, but to Taylor those seconds passed in minutes, as if her brain could do nothing but drag them out. Then came the wet, slapping sound of a corpse falling to the ground. It was still, as was everything else. For just one moment, nothing moved. Then her knife flickered out, and slid back into its sheath.

 

It was over.

 

=+= Chapter 19: Undone

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NURSE! NURSE!
> 
> MY BRAIN HURTS!
> 
> Seriously, though, this was a difficult chapter in terms of balance. Too little difficulty and Swamp Thing loses all credibility as a threat. Too much, and Taylor & Co's victory seems a little Deus Ex Machina-y. Still not sure I succeeded. 
> 
> Anyway. Thanks for reading.


	20. Setting Sail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone falls asleep in a helicopter, someone takes a shower, and someone doesn't get enough sleep.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 20: Setting Sail**

 

Taylor would have loved nothing more than to say the work in Prestonville was done. Not in the cards. There was a gruesome task ahead, and she was one of the few still capable of doing it. Lisa couldn't help – the reason she had sounded hoarse and breathy was that, during the battle, flying debris had broken nine of her ribs. She was lucky. Had she not stumbled and taken the hit on her ribcage, it would have taken her head off. No, her task was less gruesome but equally unpleasant; to stay with the wounded. The task of collecting the fallen and putting them in body bags fell to Taylor, the commander, and the two soldiers whose injuries weren't so ruinous as to immobilize them.

 

It took hours. Hunting for bodies, or pieces of them, in the mud. Digging out an arm here, a leg there, and having them match them to the bodies they came from...there did not exist words as she knew them to describe the smells of blood and shit mixing together. Or how the mud would squelch and drag at the bodies as she worked to pull them free, as if even in death Swamp Thing was still fighting them. The empty eyes and vacant faces of men who had died too fast. The pained, contorted expression of those drowned by mud forced into their lungs.

 

There was a distant thunder of rotors chopping the air. A trio of helicopters came, discharging PRT agents, medics, and picking up the wounded to take to be treated. Taylor made certain Lisa was one of them, more or less carrying her to the waiting chopper. As gently as she could, she helped her partner into one of the seats, sitting on the floor at Lisa's feet and letting her own dangle out the open door. The commander limped over, one hand shielding his face from the rotor wash. He didn't say anything, perhaps because he would have had to shout over the wind's roar, or he had shouted himself hoarse in the fight. Or maybe there was nothing left to say, so he just offered her his hand; splattered with mud and wine-dark bloodstains. It matched her own hand, which she slapped into his a moment later. A single shake, and silence stretched out between them, then he let their joined hands drop and headed back into the mud.

 

As the helicopter lifted into the air, shrinking Prestonville beneath it as it gained altitude, little black figures moving around like ants, Taylor realized she'd never learned his name. After a minute or two a man in a helmet thumped her on the shoulder and motioned her inside. Once she did, he swung the helicopter's door shut. She looked around at the wounded men belted into the seats, either unconscious or wishing they were, and at Lisa. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her face was pale. Taylor reached up and touched Lisa's knee, briefly, hesitantly, before dropping her hand back into her lap. The corner of Lisa's mouth ticked up, just a little.

 

Taylor snugged her scarf up under her nose so she could take her hood off. Her hair was tangled and matted to her scalp, speckled with dried dirt and clumped in sticky clusters. She scratched her scalp, soothing the itch before scooting so she could lean against the bare wall next to Lisa's chair. She closed her eyes, leaned back and, a moment later, a warm weight settled on the crown of her head. The corner of her mouth ticked up. Just a little.

 

=+= Chapter 20: Setting Sail =+=

 

She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Hadn't really wanted to, either. She was afraid of what her dreams would be and was in no hurry to find out. Yet, for the twenty minute duration of the ride back to the PRT headquarters and, more importantly, their in-house hospital, she was completely, entirely asleep. If she dreamed, she did not remember what they were, or if they had been full of torment. The impact of the helicopter's skids touching asphalt as they landed – slight as it was, the pilot was _very_ good – was enough to jar her back to wakefulness. The high whine of a powering down engine came next, and she could see out the window paramedics with many stretchers and one wheelchair waiting to collect their patients. 

 

The helmeted man from before reached over them and slid the door open. As if they were actors and that their cue, the paramedics hustled over and began extracting the wounded from the helicopter. The wheelchair, it turned out, was for Lisa, who didn't want it, and said as much, “I'm not crippled.” Her protests would have carried more weight if they didn't come breathy and gray-faced with obvious pain.

 

While the paramedics did their level best to not jostle her during the transition from aircraft seat to wheeled one, Taylor felt the need to point something out. “Pretty sure nine broken ribs is crippling. In pain if nothing else.” Across from her, one of the paramedics nodded their agreement. Lisa's shoulder twitched, a fresh grimace crossing her face, as if she'd contemplated waving her hand dismissively and been reminded of a few things.

 

“You may have a point.” It was a grudging concession. Good enough for Taylor. “I'll find you after getting them wrapped up, okay?”

 

“Sounds good.” It didn't, but she wasn't going to say so. The paramedics wheeled her partner to the cool, clean indoors. She, lacking any better ideas on what to do, followed. At least as far as the doors, where she was met by someone unexpected. Yesterday, when she'd met him, Director Alfred Jones hadn't looked his age – some 57 years, if Lisa was to be believed. He did now. His posture was still excellent, but someone with supernaturally keen eyes would be able to pick out the droop in his shoulders. On the other hand, anyone would be able to see it in his face. Dark bags hung under reddened eyes, and the wrinkles in his tanned face stood out in stark relief.

 

“Guardian.” His voice was as clean and clear as ever. “Glad to see you succeeded.”

 

There...something shifted in Taylor's gut. It didn't feel that way, and she said as much.

 

“No, I don't imagine it does.” Director Jones dipped his head in concession. “Still, you did good today. Mr. Gordon reported that you were in the thick of the fighting from the beginning, and that, if not for you, the mission would have been a failure.”

 

_If not for me, the mission would never have_ been. The statement bubbled up from that unknown something in her gut, she barely caught it behind her teeth. Instead, “Mr. Gordon?”

 

Director Jones hummed. “Officer In Charge James Gordon. He sends his regards, and a reminder that everyone there volunteered. That aside, we have rooms for visiting capes to stay in during training exercises. I offer a pair of them for you and your partner until you're ready to leave.”

 

Oh. A bed. That sounded heavenly.

 

Wait.

 

A _shower._ That sounded even better. “I think I'll take you up on your offer, Director Jones.”

 

He smiled. It was a nice one. Warm, a little understanding. “Anyone who takes an A-Class threat out of my backyard gets to call me Alfred. I'll lead you to those rooms, now. The official business can wait until you're both rested.”

 

=+= Chapter 20: Setting Sail =+=

 

Taylor showered – it was _exactly_ as good as she'd thought – changed into some street clothes and a domino mask, and went to find Lisa. Rest was all well and good, and she would be indulging in some heavy sleeping soon, her bone-deep fatigue all but demanded it, but there was an...an anxiety, or perhaps worry, that impelled her through the halls of the PRT, following the wall placards towards the hospital. She passed agents, men and women in suits with file folders or clipboards in hand, who didn't stop her or ask what she was doing there. So either Director Jones – she really couldn't think of him as Alfred, regardless of permission given – had briefed them on her presence or the coming and going of random capes was business as usual around here. Probably the former.

 

She smelled the hospital first; cleaning alcohols, soaps, plastics, elastics, and the faintest scent of blood. Then she heard it – an orchestra of murmured conversations, pained grunts and moans, the scratch of pen on paper, and the multitudinous squeaking of comfortable shoes on clean tile floors. Squeaky clean, it seemed, was more than just a saying. Finally, she found the double doors, each one bearing a caduceus in red above a cross in the same. Pushing through, she found an arrangement that wouldn't have been out of place in the country's finest hospitals. The Protectorate spared no expense when it came to the health of their people, it looked like. The wounded were in good hands.

 

She passed two beds, occupied by soldiers with muddy skin and in clean gowns, before a nurse stopped her. _He_ , which struck her ass odd for some reason, was a tall, reedy blonde with a beach made tan and a wispy goatee that suited him neither well nor poorly. His scrubs were clean and crisp and his face fresh, so he probably hadn't been on shift for very long. The ID tag hanging 'round his neck introduced him as Everett Blair. With a polite smile, he asked, “Can I help you?”

 

“Um. Yes.” Taylor tried not to sound as tired or anxious as she felt, the former more than the latter, and was largely unsuccessful. “I'm looking for Tattletale? She was brought in with –”

 

“Yes, the Prestonville mission.” His polite, professional smile flickered on the verge of changing into something else, but was stopped. “She's with the least injured. Head on back, and when you reach the dead end, take a left. You'll hear her before you see her.”

 

She thanked him and went on her way, briefly puzzling over the almost-change in attitude Nurse Blair had displayed. She passed a few more beds, each occupied one tugging on her heart, and she found herself wishing for an empty one. One where a person, whose injuries were on _her_ behalf, wasn't looking at her with glassy, tired eyes. Then she found one. It felt like a punch to the stomach. She almost wasn't aware of turning left at the junction, and didn't really come back to herself until she heard Lisa's voice.

 

“Five. Five again. Five _again_. Jesus, man, pick a different number! Si – oh, very funny. Five for the fourth time. You _know_ that's cheating. If my teammate were here, she'd beat you up for doing that. You know what? I don't want to play anymore. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to pout.” A pause. “Aaannnd you've passed out. Now I'm sitting here tal – ” Lisa's voice cracked, just a little bit. She cleared her throat. “– talking to myself. So...yeah.”

 

Taylor rounded the corner then, impelled by the knot in her throat that resulted from the tone of Lisa's voice. It was a very familiar tone, one that she had bitter, personal experience with. It was the tone of someone trying to hide the fact that they wanted nothing more to do than cry. There was something fundamentally wrong with Lisa sounding like that. There was also something else. Something a little easier to see.

 

=+= Chapter 20: Setting Sail =+=

 

Lisa looked worse in the hospital bed than she had in the helicopter. The bed made her look small and frail, and that was wrong. The sheets made her look pale and drawn, and that was wrong. The redness of her eyes and the barely contained tears, they too were wrong. Lisa should be whole and warm and healthy. Her eyes should be dancing with humor or the glimmer of I-know-something-you-don't. Her lips should be full and pink, or impishly smiling, not pale and flat in a grimace of pain. She should be teasing and laughing and giving Taylor shit for being so skinny. It was all wrong. All of it.

 

Tears pricked at Taylor's eyes, stinging and burning and threatening to spill. Lisa gave her the sternest look she could muster. “Don't you start. If you start _I'm_ going to start and we'll both be a mess. And that – that's not allowed.”

 

With an effort of will, Taylor willed her tears away and went to perch delicately on the side of Lisa's bed. She mustered a smile. It wasn't a very good one. “Is that so?”

 

Lisa nodded. “It's in the rules. Only –” A thick swallow. A fist wrapped itself around Taylor's heart. “Only one team member can fall apart at a time. And...” Another swallow, and tears spilled out, trailing down Lisa's cheeks. “It's _my_ turn.”

 

_Oh, Lisa._ Taylor's hands clenched in an aborted motion to hug her friend. She had to settle for taking one of Lisa's hands in both of hers and hiding how much she wanted to cry. This was not about her. Later, maybe, but now it fell to Taylor to offer comfort. Though she did not know how. She squeezed their joined hands and felt Lisa's thumb run over a knuckle. Eventually she offered, “I'm sorry you got hurt.” 

 

This was the wrong thing to say.

 

Lisa burst into tears, lifting her hands to press against her forehead, accidentally bringing Taylor further up the bed. Her chest heaved, shoulders bucking and shuddering as sobs tumbled out of her. “Oh, fuck, I almost  _died!_ Fuck, fuck fuck! What the fuck was I thinking?! What the hell am I doing?!” A stuttered breath washed warm over Taylor's wrists. She stayed still and silent, wracked with guilt for having made this happen. “Oh, God. People died. People died and its my fault.  _You_ almost died and it's my fault.  _Fuck_ .” 

 

_Say something, Taylor. Say you're sorry._

 

_Okay. Maybe not that, but say_ something. 

 

Her mouth opened, and what came out was, “Officer Gordon says we did a good thing today.”

 

Lisa snorted, a wet sound that bubbled out through her nose, dropping their joined hands to give over a red-eyed glare. “And you believe him?”  
  


Taylor nodded, wishing she didn't sound as hesitant. “Yeah. Think I do.”

 

“Do _you_ think we did the right thing?” 

 

This time there was no hesitation. “You'd never have gotten me here if I didn't.”

 

Lisa noticed that she was still holding Taylor's hands and started to toy with one of her fingers. “I...I guess that's something. Yeah. Okay.” A deep, shaky breath in. She let it out and laughed wetly. “See? Told you it was my turn.”

 

“I'm sorry I upset you. I didn't...that wasn't...”

 

“I know.”

 

Silence fell. Sort of. Lisa's sniffles and the appearance of snoring from across the room broke it, and the tension-heavy air, rather nicely. After casting around for something to change the subject with, Taylor came up with, “So...what are you going to do with your share of the bounty?”

 

=+= Chapter 20: Setting Sail =+=

 

Lisa cleared her throat and snorted, but still sounded like she had a cold. “10 million dollars?” she shrugged while managing to wince only slightly. She talked, but Taylor didn't hear anything. Her ears were still ringing from the thunder of _10 million dollars_. That was an unbelievable amount of money, an _insane_ amount of money, and it was only half. She came back to Lisa giving her a somewhat knowing look. “You only got the first part of that, didn't you?”

 

“No, I – !” Taylor sighed. “Yes. Sorry. Is the bounty really 20 million?”

 

“Yeah.” Lisa's lips twisted in what was supposed to be a smile, but was too bitter to be anything but a smirk. “Totally worth it, right?”

 

“Um.” There was a part of her that made her want to say _yes_. The part that told her that nine casualties for taking out an A-Class threat was fucking unbelievable, that they should be proud of how easy Swamp Thing went down. She told that part to shut its mouth. It had served its purpose today in getting her out of Prestonville alive.

 

“Your silence is kind of damning, Ta – Guardian.”

 

“I wasn't – I said 'um'!”

 

Lisa managed a watery chuckle of a laugh, but it was such a welcome sound that it all but erased the embarrassment burning Taylor's cheeks. “You're right, I stand _wildly_ corrected.” A large, breathy sigh was heaved and she finally let go of Taylor's hands to swipe under her eyes. Taylor returned her hands to curl in her lap, still holding the phantom of warmth and skin between them. “Oh, hell. I am so ready for this day to be over.”

 

It was right then that Taylor had an idea. A perfect, utterly perfect idea. “Um. Tattletale.”

 

“ _Again_ with the 'um'.”

 

“You want to hear my great idea or not?”

 

There. Finally. It was like a weight being lifted from Taylor's chest. The light was back in Lisa's eyes. Dimmer, but there. “I'm so sorry, fearless leader. Your captive audience awaits.”

 

Taylor paused to make sure she wouldn't be interrupted again, then spilled the beans. “I'm giving my half of the bounty back. So Director Jones can give it to the families of the people who died.”

 

A smile returned the fullness and life to Lisa's lips. “You were right. That is a pretty great idea.”

 

“Told you so.”

 

=+= Chapter 20: Setting Sail =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any story relevant things to stay here, but I'm not going to let that stop me. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Okay, fine. I am.


	21. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which several trees are used up, someone eats granola bars, and some coffee is bad.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 21: Coming Home**

 

Claiming a 20 million dollar bounty was complicated enough. To do that, only to give half back was – bureaucratically speaking – an absolute nightmare. Saying that the gesture was well-received would be an understatement. For a moment, Taylor thought that Officer in Charge Gordon was going to offer to adopt her, or maybe his firstborn son. It occurred to her that this would be a great way to get some good PR and build some goodwill with the Protectorate, but such a thought was in direct opposition to the spirit in which the act was taken. It wasn't about goodwill or PR, or even her conscience. It was about trying to repay something with an immeasurable value: sacrifice. Nine people had sacrificed their lives, and 10 million dollars wasn't nearly enough to make that right. There existed no amount of money to make that right. But 10 million was what she had to give, so that was what she did.

 

On top of all of that, it was right. She knew it in her bones.

 

“Well.” With a practiced efficiency, Director Jones signed the last piece of the paperwork and handed it over. His signature looked incredible elegant, especially when put next to the scribble of Taylor's signature and whatever chicken scratch Lisa called an autograph. Still, she thought, an explanation could be made involving broken ribs that could be believed without much difficulty. “Now I get to say I've actually used an entire ream of paper on my expenses.” It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

 

Taylor felt compelled to offer some complaint, though the worse she felt was some muscular soreness that had by now faded into nothing. So she kept quiet while Lisa complained. “We've done more for global warming today than a thousand airplanes made of...of other, smaller airplanes.” Taylor smiled, a small sound of humor escaping her. Lisa shot her a Look. “Shut up. Complaining is hard.”

 

Director Jones chuckled. “Indeed. Now. That's that done, and our doctor says that you, Miss Tattletale, are now recovered enough to move. I think it's safe to say that it won't be long now before you two are on your way.”

 

“Just have to find our car.” Taylor piped in. “Then we'll be out of your hair.”

 

“I'll ask Agent Franklin to drive you to where you left it.” He stood, shaking her hand, then waved Lisa out of her attempt. “It was an honor to have met you Guardian, Tattletale. Good luck and godspeed.”

 

=+= Chapter 21: Coming Home =+=

 

Lisa slept through most of Florida. It was expected to happen, given what Taylor knew. Panacea had been either unable, unwilling, or disallowed to come to Florida to get her healing groove on, so they'd had to make do with the resources on hand. One of those resources was a member of Jones' PRT team who went by the name Big Pharma. He was a tinker whose specialty was in pharmacology and had developed a medication to promote the body's healing processes. He was also three hundred pounds and six feet tall. Hence, 'Big'. The pill had been a chalky white and the size of Taylor's pinkie. The injected version, they were told, wasn't quite ready. At any rate, as an effect of supercharging a body system, Lisa would be inordinately hungry and sleepy for the next few days while her body repaired the damage.

 

And it wasn't like she'd be missing any spectacular views. Taylor was driving and slowly being lulled into complacency by the flat, wide roads and trees lining the interstate. An endless parade of a rumbling engine, whirring road noise, and the gusting of wind over the car body. A monotony only broken by the occasional toll booth.

 

Lisa's head was leaned against the window, hair curling under her jaw. The sunlight would, every once in a while, play across her face to no reaction. She was deep in sleep, to the point that little snores would grumble from her on every exhale. Every line in her face was slack, and it was a stillness that Taylor infinitely preferred to that earlier, pale tension. Seeing that, and Lisa's subsequent tears, had been like choking on acid, lumping in her throat and mixed with a powerful urge to weep. It may just be a trick of the sunlight, combined with a night's separation from the emotions, but...it was better, now. Swamp Thing was gone, and with it all of the ghosts and misery and death it carried in its name. It was a bright, beautiful, _hot_ Florida day and the world spun on. In the depths of Taylor's mind she wondered how Lisa filled out a bikini.

 

…

 

Hm.

 

Maybe they should come back, one day in the future. Like a vacation. Even though she didn't much care for beaches, making the sight in her imagination a reality would be the sand and sunburn. That aside, it could be nice. Like making good memories to override bad ones. Or maybe just the bikini thing, but who said it couldn't be both?

 

They rolled over the state border into Georgia before Lisa was woken by her own growling stomach, whereupon she immediately demanded food. Taylor rolled her eyes, smiled, and complied.

 

=+= Chapter 21: Coming Home =+=

 

The city of Brockton Bay was bordered on three sides by gently sloping hills and and on the fourth by...well...a bay. The Docks were the oldest part of the city and closest to the water. Brick buildings, re-purposed homes and shops, and winding, random streets defined a city built before city planning was a think. North of that was the Boardwalk, bright and shiny-new compared the old dark of the Docks. Inland from the Boardwalk was Downtown: office spires, streetlights, a grid-street system, and lots of glass. Inland and north of Downtown were the nicer neighborhoods – Capital Hills, Bay Landing, Ronan's Fork, and Crabtree. Immaculata, the Catholic school, was there. South of those neighborhoods were the slightly less nice neighborhoods: Elderwood, Fisherman's Pointe, Oak Ridge. Middle class. Clarendon, the less terrible version of Winslow, was there. Bordering the Docks and the Boardwalk was where everyone else lived. Lord Street. Snapfinger Road. Allman Drive and Harper Court. Winslow was there, which was really all that needed to be said. Joining it all together, snaking through every part of the city, was the interstate.

 

They came over the south hill, cresting just after a minivan with a reckless disregard for other drivers, just before sunrise. In that pale, predawn light the city looked beautiful. It didn't look like it was in the throes of a slow economic death, or that it was being hurried by the slow strangulation of gang presence. The rising sun was beginning to glint off the mirrored glass buildings Downtown. It looked... it looked a lot like home.

 

Taylor snorted. Apparently, she got rather poetic when she was tired and her mind allowed to wander. And she _was_ tired. Unlike the drive down, she hadn't been able to switch with Lisa and get some sleep. They also couldn't yet use the half of the bounty they kept because the transfer hadn't gone through yet. According to Lisa, in one of her rare waking moments not consumed by food, they'd beat the money home by an hour. Or near enough that they wouldn't notice. So it had been down to her to shoulder the drive, relying on some shitty truck stop coffee and her own slight regenerative ability to power through. Not something she intended to make a habit of, but useful to know she could do it.

 

She took the Bay exit, joining the other early birds as they wound their way through the city, getting off at Lord and taking the side streets that would lead to her house. Their base wasn't appealing at all right then, and she didn't know where Lisa lived. So...yeah. Her house it was. It was five minutes from the off ramp to home, and they both dragged their feet and took way too damn long. But then she was pulling into their driveway behind her dad's beaten old pickup. The engine pinged and clicked after she turned it off, the only sound save breathing and some quiet snoring.  
  


_Home again, home again._

 

The front door opened, and out stepped her dad. His suit jacket was missing, and his tie was half done. There was a coffee stain on the front of his shirt that he hadn't noticed. It occurred to her that he looked far more relieved than someone whose daughter had called to tell him they were coming home. Or that she was still alive. Or called at all, really.

 

…

 

Shit.

 

=+= Chapter 21: Coming Home =+=

 

“I'm _really_ sorry.” This being the sixth or seventh attempt at making amends for flat forgetting to call. Like the first five or six, this one's reception was lukewarm at best. Even though she helped it as best she could with the most contrite, exhausted expression she could muster, her dad wasn't moved. With good reason. He _had_ spent the better part of yesterday out of his mind with worry. In fact, it was only until around eleven that evening, when Director Jones called Lisa's emergency contact – him – to inform them of the injury, that he knew for certain they were alive. Forget being grounded, Taylor was pretty sure she was about to get buried. And really, apart from the knee-jerk, Hunter born reaction to any perceived threats to her freedom, she couldn't find it in her to disagree. There was also the guilt. The hot wash of guilt and shame chaser.

 

“I'm of more than half a mind to ground you again.” He was growling. That was bad. He wasn't shouting. That was good. He was in the walk in closet he once shared with her mom changing shirts and she was sitting, shoulders hunched, on the foot of the bed. Which may go a long way towards explaining why her 'sorry' face wasn't working. “How on Earth do you just forget to call?”

 

“There was...there was a lot going on, and it – it slipped my mind.” she shrugged, helpless. “It's not like I did it on purpose...” she trailed off. She didn't know what to do other than apologize again, and that clearly wasn't working. “There just wasn't any time.”

 

“I understand that.” He stepped out, doing up the topmost button, open cuffs flapping in response to his hands' motions. He also sounded and looked a lot calmer. “It's not that I can't grasp that you were busy, everyone gets busy. What I can't understand is why, from when you checked in with Alfred to when you pulled in just now, you never thought to call and let me know you were alive. No one is that busy.”

 

Taylor opened her mouth and, lacking anything to say, kept silent.

 

He continued, having done up his cuffs and now did a half-Windsor knot for his tie in practiced motions. This was in direct contrast to his tone, which was forced calm above a remnant of some fierce emotion. “You had me worried, kid. You had me real worried.” A pause. “I'm going to be late. Look. I'm not angry. Not anymore. But this can't happen again, Taylor, it _can't_. So, new rule. Whenever you're out there being a hero, you call every day, or you have your teammate do it. Even if it's just to say you can't talk, I want to hear your voice. Know you're okay. Deal?”

 

She went from sitting to hugging him in one, explosive movement. The breath whuffed out of him from the impact, and he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around her. “Deal.” She mumbled into his chest, taking in his aftershave, laundry detergent, and his general dad smell.

 

=+= Chapter 21: Coming Home =+=

 

After her dad left with a promise to bring takeout after seeing the aftermath of Lisa's attack on their granola bar stores, Taylor flopped onto the same couch her partner had stretched out on, shifting a pair of sock-covered feet out of the way only to have them drop into her lap. After a moment came a sleepy mumble. “He was really scared, you know?”

 

“Yeah.”  
  


Lisa's hand described a purposeless arc through the air before draping over the back of the couch. “Like, he thought you were dead at one point.”

 

A flare of irritation sharpened Taylor's tone. “I _know_ , Lisa. I don't have super deduction, but I _do_ know my dad. You don't have to rub it in, I feel shitty enough.”

 

“Kay.” Lisa snuggled deeper into her appropriated throw pillow. “Don' mope, though. Mopin's bad for you. Broken ribs are bad for you, too, but you don' have those. _I_ have those.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Taylor started toying with one of Lisa's feet, swaying it back and forth and generally being a mild pest. “For another couple of days, anyway.” She was answered with a grunt, followed by the even breathing of someone just fallen asleep. After a moment, she let her head fall back and closed her eyes. _I think I'm ready for today to be over_.

 

She was woken by the muted ring of her pocketed phone. Due to the fact that even more of Lisa's legs had somehow ended up in her lap, extracting the device was a bit of a chore. After some wiggling, shifting, and a deft, delicate touch, she was successful. Just in time for her to miss the call. And since the number was blocked, she had no way to call whoever it was back. If she wanted to do such a thing, that is. She wasn't sure. Besides, if they _really_ wanted to get hold of her, they'd call back. That occurred not ten seconds later. She groaned quietly, cursed herself for even thinking that, and answered the call. “Hello?”

 

On the other side was a man's voice. Professionally friendly. “ _Hello. Am I speaking to Guardian?_ ”

 

“You are.”

 

“ _Excellent! My name is Kenneth Sampson and I'm calling on behalf of Director Emily Piggot of the Protectorate. She would like to arrange a meeting._ ”

 

That got her attention. Her eyes, which had begun their trek towards closed, snapped back open. “A meeting about what?”

 

Kenneth managed to convey apologetic reproach over the phone. Man had skill. “ _I couldn't tell you. I'm not privy to that information, I'm afraid. That kind of information is need-to-know, and it appears that I do not, in fact, need to._ ” He didn't sound all that troubled by it, Taylor noted. “ _You aren't in any trouble, I_ can _say that._ ”

 

“Oh?”

 

“ _Yes. So, is there a time or day you'd prefer for a meeting? Keep in mind that it can last from anywhere between a half to two and a half hours._ ” Really? “ _There's an opening today at...let me see...two thirty. Does that work for you?_ ”

 

Taylor hummed noncommittally, looking over to catch Lisa snort in her sleep and turn over, kicking her in the stomach by accident. “Is there another time available? Today isn't looking good.”

 

“ _Certainly. One moment...mmmm...that's – no...Ah. I'm afraid that the next available time is the middle of next week.”_

 

“That sounds much better.”

 

“ _Excellent! I have you down for Wednesday, at...one in the afternoon. Will you be arriving by air or will we need to arrange sea transport?_ ”

 

What? “Um. The second one, please.”

 

“ _Alright then. Someone will be in contact closer to the meeting with the details. Have a nice day!_ ” Then, Kenneth left her life by hanging up before she could say anything.

 

She closed the phone, turned it off, slumped lower in the couch, and closed her eyes. Not a single other thing would be accomplished today. Not one more damned thing. Not if she had any say in it.

 

=+= Chapter 21: Coming Home =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus we bring to an end the inception of Taylor n' Lisa, Villain Exterminators. Vexterminators? 
> 
> Vexterminators.


	22. So That...Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some silences are awkward, two people drive around, and a clam burps.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover  
**

**Chapter 22: So _That..._ Happened**

 

They had a week until their meeting with Director Piggot, and they'd spent most of yesterday in some form of unconsciousness. It had started with the couch nap, which put a crick in her neck and her legs to sleep. Then, her dad had come home with the promised food. After tearing through most, if not all of it in a frenzy of plastic forks and cardboard cartons, they retired back to the living room to settle into a nice food coma that turned into a food nap. Now, at this point, Taylor was rested, healed and ready to roll. The food and the small amounts of sleep had been more than she needed to recover fully, and was now prepared for whatever came next. This was not the case for Lisa. Though rapidly on the mend, supernaturally fast in point of fact, she was still a ways from fully mobile. It was this, more than any other thing, that led Taylor to making a decision.

 

No cape business. There was to be no costumes, no training, no going to the base – not even to get something, there wasn't anything there anyway – and definitely no patrols or fighting. For the next week, she, Taylor Hebert, and all of her friends, would simply be...not capes. They were going to go out and be as normal as possible. It was a task at which she was more than likely to fail, given how she'd lost track of what 'normal' was a little more than half a year ago. With the grace and guidance of her friends, who totally wouldn't lead her astray for kicks, she could muddle through. But! This decision left her in something a pickle. What did two, possibly three teenage girls who weren't capes do in a city like Brockton Bay?

 

Not knowing what else to do, she asked her dad. After what was possibly the most awkward pause in their long, sad, family history of awkward pauses – and that included her telling him about her powers – he suggested something that he called 'The Classic'. After some elaboration, it turned out he meant mini golf.

 

It was perfect.

 

It wasn't a movie, so they could actually interact with each other – this, she was told, was very important – and catch up on all the things that someone who might have been out of town had missed. A quick bit of Internet searching told her that there was a course not ten minutes from her house. The Ocean Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex had opened last month Downtown to rave reviews.

 

So. Now she had a plan. What she needed now, was participants. To that end, she reached for her phone.

 

=+= Chapter 22: So _That_...Happened =+=

 

Lisa had chosen not to go, for two reasons. The first was that she was allergic. The second, which came after Taylor finished marveling how the first was said with a straight face, was that she didn't feel up to much moving around. Which, given how she'd just gotten an enthusiastic response, made her feel like a bit of a heel. She offered to cancel, or maybe change the idea to a bit less active. An idea that had been waved off, followed by Lisa asserting that, “I'm probably going to end up asleep in a few minutes anyway, if the yesterday was any indication. Go. Away with you. Do mighty deeds in my name.”

 

Taylor gestured dramatically. “Pff – they'll – there's going to be books about how good I am at mini golf. And a movie version, like four years later.”

 

There was a teasing light in Lisa's eyes and the quirk of her lips. “What kind of movie? _Gladiator_ or _Weekend at Bernie's_?”

 

Taylor sniffed. “If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.”

 

Sabah then announced her arrival by way of leaning on her car horn, the brassy sound whining through the air for several long seconds. Taylor chose to capitalize on the opportunity; tossing her hair dramatically, stalking to the door, and swinging it wide open. She paused only long enough toss an arch look over her shoulder. The door closed behind her to Lisa's soft, gentle laughter.

 

Behind her dad's truck was a boxy, forest green SUV that had a film of dust, dirt, and general road gross covering the lower portions of the vehicle. Its rims were dirty, what could be seen of the back window was covered in stickers, and there was some kind of pass dangling from the rearview mirror stalk. It looked like a college student's car, and it hit her then that she hadn't actually seen Sabah's car before. Which was odd, considering how they'd been friends for the better part of half a year. Taylor waved and smiled her greeting as she trotted across her – admittedly tiny – front yard. She tried to open the passenger door only to find herself locked out. An exasperated look was directed to the driver. _Really_ , it seemed to say?

 

“Oh, damn it!” Sabah's curse and fumble for the 'unlock' button was entertaining, and gave her enough time to tuck her keys into one of the pockets on her cargo pants. The doors unlocked with a _thunk_ , Sabah gave a triumphant sound of victory over her own car, and Taylor let herself in. She hadn't quite gotten her ass into the chair when she attacked by an over-the-console hug. “It's _so_ good to see you, Taylor!”

 

Ever so slightly bewildered, Taylor returned the hug. “It's...good to see you too.” They separated, returning to their opposite sides of the car. Sabah put the car in gear – it was a manual, she didn't know those existed anymore – and they pulled away. “I was only gone for like, three days, you know?”

 

Sabah shrugged. “So?” They pulled a right onto a feeder road that would lead them to a main road that would take them Downtown. “I can't miss a friend? Plus, it was, you know...busy. We were both busy. Many things happened.”

 

An eyebrow rose. “I know what _I_ did. What happened here?”

 

“Your dad didn't tell you?”

 

Taylor shifted sheepishly. “I, uh, we were kind of occupied with how I forgot to call him the entire time I was gone.”

 

Sabah hummed. “I'm going to have to beat you for that, myself. But anyway, yeah. Many things happened. I missed most of it cuz I had a wicked hangov – uh... _head cold_ for most of the time, but apparently it started with a girl called Hellhound going after some underground dog-fighting rings and tearing the buildings down...”

 

=+= Chapter 22: So _That_...Happened =+=

 

The Ocean Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex was a stunningly average looking building. Long, low, and wide – it looked to be a re-purposed warehouse, and only a lack of corrugated metal walls made that seem unlikely. Or maybe that metal was just sandwiched between layers of drywall and beige stucco. Maybe not. Either way, the angled roof was a network of asphalt strips and tar, so fresh that some of the smell drifted to Taylor's bloodhound like nose. As to be expected there were few windows, and little glass overall save the sliding front doors. Above them was the blue-and-green neon strips naming the place in a retro kind of cursive. Above that, a neon flower in bloom.

 

Giving credence to the praise she'd found online, the parking lot was full to near-bursting. It took Sabah a bit of searching and a somewhat...intense...conversation with a minivan full of Clarendon kids on some sort of sports retreat to finagle a parking spot. As they walked inside, Sabah finished her story with, “So roll credits and, spoiler; she's joining the Wards. I mean, o _fficially_ , it's next week, but she's on the Rig now.”

 

“Sounds like...it was a long time coming.” Taylor commented over the sudden influx of noise that came with the automatic doors sliding open. Music and crashing pins and a dozen dozen conversations, whoops, and shouted curses.

 

“Yeah, she's had a rough time of it.” Sabah led them to the counter, where a pimpled teen was making a solid effort to be named the Most Bored Person in History. He mumbled his way through the welcome, and only the fact that Taylor had superhuman hearing let her hear a syllable.

 

“Welcome to the Ocean Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex my name Steve what can I do for you today.”

 

Sabah, not possessing any sort of enhanced sense of hearing, had to ask to repeat himself. He did so, after a heavily put-upon sigh, and was only slightly louder. It was enough for her to hear him, though, and negotiate for a set of brightly colored putters and an equally colorful set of balls. Taylor managed to argue her friend around to paying for half, because...because she didn't really have a reason. Other than a sort of knee-jerk pride or reluctance or some, chimera-like combination of both. After that, they received a set of instructions to find the course. These basically amounted to 'follow the signs', which they then did, pushing through a set of double doors with no motors to find themselves at the beginning of a twisting, variously themed mini golf course.

 

She grinned at Sabah. “Ready to get rocked?”

 

As answer, Sabah hefted her club as a knight would their sword. “Let's get wild.”

 

=+= Chapter 22: So _That_...Happened =+=

 

It was a little odd, Taylor thought, to see a windmill in an ocean theme mini-golf course. It seemed there was a universal law that a plastic windmill would inevitably appear in a mini-golf course, regardless of theme or location. Much in the same way that a car would inevitably acquire a collection of old french fries beneath the driver's seat. They made their way through the course, Taylor cheating viciously at any opportunity and still managing to lose. It was as Sabah was doing some form of geometrical analysis with her club that she asked, in a strangely casual manner, “So where's your partner in crime?”

 

For a brief moment Taylor was about to protest that she and Lisa weren't criminals. That they were heroes, trying to make the world a better, safer place. Then her brain re-engaged. “We got back pretty late the other day, and we weren't entirely sure where her car was, so she crashed at my house.”

 

Now confusion, still with that same tone. “She didn't leave?”

 

And now Taylor was confused. Sabah took her shot, putting more force than required and sending her ball straight the grinning crab's mechanical pincers. The ball bounced off them into the 'water hazard', which was actually a sort of bowl looking dip covered in blue felt. “N – no. Still there. Snoring away when we left.” Not really true, but Lisa would forgive her. If she ever found out, _which she would_. She took her turn at the tee, adjusting her stance a few times before swinging in the vain hope it would send her ball anywhere but right into the obstacles.

 

This, curiously enough, was what happened. Sabah hummed, and dipped her head in an accommodating gesture that bounced her ponytail of thick, black hair. Just as Taylor was about to take her shot, she said something absolutely insane. “Are you dating her?”

 

Taylor flubbed the shot. She flubbed it so much that the head of the club dug into the ground, slipped out of her hands, slapped into the ground, then rebounded up to smack her in the shin. She thought it was a joke until she looked up from rubbing her shin. Sabah's dark eyes were searching, serious. Above them, a frown drew her brows down and together. She'd crossed her arms and cocked her hip. This was absolutely, one hundred percent _not_ a joke.

 

_Where was this coming from? Why – what...?_

 

At one point in her youth, her mom had surprised her dad so thoroughly that she'd said he looked like a smacked ass. Taylor could now empathize. Even her thoughts refused to be coherent for a minute. Finally, after an embarrassing amount of flapping her lips like a fish, she was able to say, “Wha – no. No we're not. Um, wh – why do you ask?” But she wanted to. Oh, so very much. Granted, she also wanted to pin Lisa to the bed and explore every inch of that _hot_ body with her mouth, but...that was neither here nor there. There was a flash of something like satisfaction across Sabah's features. Like it, but not quite, in a way Taylor couldn't quite name. Just as quick as it appeared, it was gone.

 

Sabah sighed. “I...I don't know to say this without just, you know, saying it. So I'm just going to say it, and we'll just ride out the awkward that follows, okay?” A pause, and a deep breath. “I kinda have a crush on you, Taylor.”

 

She was wrong, earlier. _Now_ , she could empathize. What came out of her mouth was a series of disjointed noises, as there was clearly no way she was capable of forming thoughts, let alone words, at this point in time. There was something in her, some sad little part, that refused to hear what her friend – _more than a friend? –_ had just said. It was impossible, this bitterness whispered, for anyone to crush on her. For anyone to even be attracted to her. Her eyes were too big, her mouth too wide. She was flat and skinny and unattractive.

 

…

 

Right?

 

“I'd kind of appreciate you saying something, you know. Cuz um, this is – yeah, this is pretty awkward.”

 

“Y-” Nope. Reboot, brain. Taylor tried again. “You have a crush on me.”

 

Sabah's brows rose. “Is that so hard to believe?”

 

Yes, but saying that outright would be...weird? Fuck it, things were already weird. “A little bit, yeah.”

 

“Huh.” Sabah sniffed, swinging her club up to rest on her shoulder. “Okay. Uh...this was a much better idea in my head. _And,_ it's still your turn.”

 

=+= Chapter 22: So _That_...Happened =+=

 

The next three holes were an exercise in awkward silence. Taylor was no stranger to these, and found herself in an unfamiliar and unenviable position. That of the person to whom the duty fell of breaking that silence. Usually it was someone else – her dad, Lisa, or Sabah – who drew _her_ out and made _her_ talk, and she had no idea how they did it. They just started talking and somehow the awkward went away. There had to be some middle step, some...link between talking and slaying that particular dragon. If such a thing existed, she didn't know what it was. But it was becoming increasingly clear that Sabah had run out of this peculiar brand of social courage, and so it would fall to Taylor to suck it up and make this silence end because frankly, she was considering throwing herself off the little wooden footbridge than endure one more second of it. So she opened her mouth, said a quick mental prayer, and let words tumble out. “On the way down to Florida, we stopped at this little truck stop and – and I bought this book. It was a murder-mystery and, strangely enough for truck stop lit, it was _terrible._ One of the worst things I ever read, but I read it out loud until we reached Charleston, and then I got so disgusted with it I threw it out the window. And, well...We were going pretty fast, and there were those roadside fruit vendor stalls, and...the book hit one of the stalls and knocked it over.”

 

She chanced a look up from her putting preparation at the sound of a muffled snort. Laughter? It danced in Sabah's dark eyes and Taylor felt a rush of elation. Victory and joy in equal measure. She was doing it! It was working! She made her putt, not really caring where it went, and stepped back to let Sabah have her turn. She heard the _clack-clack-clack_ of the ball bouncing off the various obstacles and then a sound she had only heard rarely that day. The sound of plastic bouncing off plastic, rolling, and a settling crackle. Sabah dropped her ball on the little, electric-tape X and looked up just in time to see Taylor get a hole in one. “That's – you just cheated. You _had_ to. Nobody gets a hole in one without looking.”

 

“Cross my heart, no cheating.” They were talking again! Words, sweet, sweet words were being exchanged! Yes, they were very pointedly _not_ talking about how Sabah – beautiful, crazy, _awesome_ Sabah – had a crush on her and that Taylor did not return those feelings, but progress was progress. “In fact, I was cheating _until_ right now.”

 

Sabah missed, sending her fluorescent orange ball into the mouth of the mechanical clam, which promptly closed, emitted a swallowing noise, and then a tinny belch. “Okay, so...the clam just ate my ball, you just confessed to cheating at mini-golf, and I'm getting a little hungry. I mean, like, I could eat. Wanna go see what the food's like here, or scram to somewhere else?”

 

Taylor, who wasn't very hungry, simply shrugged. Truth be told, she was starting to feel...guilty. Guilty in a way she was having a little difficulty nailing down. It was a lot like when she was younger, and her friend had wanted to do something and she'd been unable or incapable, like horseback riding. Close to that, but not quite. Less innocent than horses, which she wasn't fond of.

 

Oh.

 

She understood now. As they were leaving the course, clubs in hand, Taylor apologized. “Sorry, Sabah.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For not – for not liking you the way you like me. You were my first friend in almost two years, and one of my best now, and now I don't – now I can't...”

 

Sabah frowned. “Are you apologizing for not reciprocating how I feel? Cuz that's – that's a little...” A pause. “that's not something you should feel bad about. I'm not going to stop being your friend, you know.”

 

“But I hurt your feelings.” Taylor pointed this out, compelled to by...something. Guilt, again?

 

“Taylor, if I stopped talking to everyone who hurt my feelings, the only living thing I'd interact with would be my fish, Broseidon. I have a crush on you because you're awesome, and you're hot, and you kick all kinds of ass. _And_ , you rep my store, so that's good, too. Anyway, the point is that you shouldn't feel obligated to date me out of some kind of obligation. If you're hot for Blondie, be hot for Blondie. Hell, _ravish_ that body and write me a detailed report later.” She stopped them in the parking lot, and put her hands on Taylor's shoulders. “I was a bit jealous, you know? But I'll get over it. I'm a big girl. I _am_ going to help your dad work on his shovel speech, though.”

 

Warmth rush through her, washing away the guilt and drawing out a smile. “Don't you dare. Sabah, he's been working on that speech since I was born, he doesn't _need_ any help.”

 

“I can edit. You know, proofread it. I'm a college student, we're good at that.”

 

“No.”

 

“Taylorrrr...”

 

“No.”

 

“Fine.”

 

And then, Sabah proceeded to pout all the way to Macho Nacho.

 

=+= Chapter 22: So _That_...Happened =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't able to put the italics in the chapter title, but it's in the text, so...yeah.
> 
> See you in the next one.


	23. Official Business Only, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone cheats at Street Fighter, someone else gets confused, and then they get confused again.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please**

 

The days following the Mini-Golf Revelation were exactly what Taylor had intended them to be: vast amounts of lazing around, a few short trips to the mall, catching up on movies, and even an impromptu late night Street Fighter tournament. Her dad won, for the record, narrowly beating Lisa, who had been cheating copiously since the beginning. Among Taylor's circle of friends, 'if you aren't cheating, you aren't trying' seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. Also, the corollary to this rule would appear to be that it wouldn't help anyway, because the cheater then usually lost.

 

Anyway.

 

The day soon came for their trip out to the Rig to meet with Director Piggot. Kenneth, turning in a remarkable second performance, had indeed called to set up the details of the trip, and they were as follows. She and Lisa were to be in costume at Pier 5 twenty minutes before the time of the appointment. If they had any weapons, they were kindly requested to leave them at home. Taylor didn't have the heart to tell him that she _couldn't do that_ with her bow, and so she didn't, promising to leave her knife and get Lisa to do the same with her gun. At the end of the talk he'd added, as a piece of personal advice, to try and not pick a fight. Taylor's first impression of the Director had been of someone you didn't annoy if you could help it, so that advice was something she felt she could happily follow. 

 

Pier 5 was the only one of the original seventeen still in use, and therefore the cleanest. Between the rest of the world and the pier was a gated guard station, but one obviously done up by a Tinker. Instead of a chain link fence and metal...rising-arm-thing...it was a visibly blue force field, humming gently and wavering in the air. Behind the field was the station, inside which Taylor could hear – not see, there were no windows – at least three people moving around. Maybe there were more, the field's hum made it hard to tell. Behind the station was the pier itself, and the only normal construction in the whole ensemble. Just a length of concrete, wood, and metal jutting out into the gently chopped waters of the Bay.

 

She and Lisa rocked up twenty five minutes before their appointment and just sort of stood around in front of the field for a moment before, with a strange click, it lowered exactly long enough for them to cross and approach the station. From a speaker set at Taylor's eye level a clear, crisp voice emitted. “ _Name and business, please._ ” 

 

She was about to answer when she remembered which one of them was the 'official' spokesperson for their team, and then nudged Lisa. She glared at Taylor, mouthed  _hate you so much_ , and stepped up to the speaker, which was oriented somewhere at her forehead. “Tattletale and Guardian, here to see Director Piggot.” 

 

“ _If you'll proceed to the end of the pier, your transport will arrive shortly. Please comply with all safety regulations and have a pleasant visit._ ” 

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

 

In the distance, roughly in the middle of the bay – or rather, _above_ the middle – was the Rig. It didn't have a special or overly remarkable name, and Taylor suspected that was by design. What that design was, she couldn't say, but nobody picked a name that unassuming unless they were doing it on purpose or wretchedly unimaginative. It had begun life as an oil rig, the kind that exploded or caught fire or fell over every twenty years or so before Leviathan ate all but one or two. Having been spared this fate, the Rig then caught the attention of an ambitious group of Tinkers, who wanted to proclaim their ability and show off at the same time. They proceeded to add a mountain's worth of tweaks and upgrades that were largely if not entirely classified. Well. Apart from the fact that it floated. That was common knowledge. _How_ , on the other hand, wasn't.

 

It was a definite spectacle. Which was also probably by design. At any rate, as they approached Taylor scanned the waters beneath it for their transport and saw nothing. Maybe they were early, or the transport guy was late? Or, as the sound of spinning rotors made their way to her ears, she was simply looking in the wrong place. It was somewhat jarring to see what was for all intents and purposes an ordinary helicopter take off from such a futuristic place.

 

Lisa tugged at her elbow. She turned, to see her partner point at the ground they stood on. Apparently, Lisa still wasn't over the whole spokesperson thing. She followed the finger to see the paint on the ground denoting that the pair of them were in fact standing smack in the middle of the helicopter's landing area. Fixing the issue proved easy, and she then looked to see how much closer their transport was. In doing so she was forced to revise her earlier assessment. It was only ordinary from afar. As it drew closer Taylor could see armored body panels, some strange sort of reflective material as a windscreen, and a total lack of rotors. It looked, sounded, and acted like a helicopter, but was missing its most iconic part. The doors had no windows, so she couldn't see who was inside, but the warped windscreen provided a blurry image of a single pilot.

 

Air rushed past them, pushing her cape out behind her and doing its best to destroy Lisa's artful ponytail. The helicopter landed smoothly, barely settling before the door slid open and, after a moment's hesitation, they hunched over – though there were no rotors for them to be hit by – and hurried to enter the vehicle. The interior had nothing in common with the last helicopter Taylor had been in, resembling a luxury car more than a rough n' ready troop transport. After she and Lisa had piled in, the door slid shut behind them, cutting all exterior noise. There was also, she noted, a solid wall between them and the pilot. For an organization as security conscious as the PRT, it made sense.

 

That wall didn't stop Taylor from hearing the pilot speak moments before some hidden speaker conveyed her voice to them. The odd, layered talk made it a little hard to understand, but not enough to render what was said unintelligible. “ _Goooood afternoon ladies! My name is Lara Frame and I will be your pilot for this brief trip. Security regs mandate that I remind you that this is a_ non-smoking _Tinkered helicopter, and that there will be_ no _in flight meal. Budget cuts. Our flight time today will be about...one minute, and looking out my window I see a beautiful, sunny day. Should be smooth flying. If you'll buckle in, we'll get going._ ”

 

After a moment's fumbling, Taylor managed to work out the harness. Lisa had it sorted in a heartbeat. That instant, the helicopter's engine whined into higher revs and they lifted off, rising into the air with stomach dropping speed. Last time, she'd been too distracted, tired, and/or wounded to give it any thought, but as they arced out over the shrinking waters of the bay, Taylor reflected that this...this was pretty cool.

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

Lara Frame left their life in the same way she entered it; a helicopter. Off to refuel or pick up some other visitor or just to fly in great, huge circles around the Rig. Taylor didn't know, but waved to the vehicle shrinking into the sky before turning to take stock of where they now stood. The helipad jutted out over the waters, no railings, just a big rectangle of metal and concrete. The door inside was unguarded and beneath an alcove, about which something tugged at her, bothered her. But what? She narrowed her eyes, peering close, and saw –

 

Lisa nudged her in the side. “It's hinged.” she didn't whisper, the wind would have taken the words away, but was quiet enough to be called such. “Opens up and shoots foam, bullets, missiles, whatever they think is necessary. _Also_ , this whole platform is laced with explosives. Any unauthorized landings and, well...boom.”

 

Well. That certainly cemented her impression of the PRT's general mindset. It also made her step somewhat more carefully as they crossed the helipad to the door, which hissed open at their approach. Inside the wind died out, and so Taylor could hear the muted thunder of dozens of conversations and footsteps. The corridors were a bland, off-white color that was probably proven by science to be soothing and promote productivity. The floors were cheap carpet, and it generally gave off the impression of an ordinary office building. Apart from the armed guards and security checkpoint in front of them. Another one, that is. So they got to introduce themselves _again,_ have their meeting confirmed _again_ , and be told to follow the security regulations _again_. It was like the PRT was expecting them to go insane and try to kill everyone.

 

That aside, after making their assurances ( _again_ ), they were led by a passing trooper through what had to be purposely labyrinthine corridors to the Director's office which again contained a strange mix of Tinker tech, military organization, and an office waiting room. To begin with, the furniture in the room was all made of some sleek black material that seemed to flex and flow under the cheap, fluorescent overhead lights. The door to the director's office was wood, but only superficially. Stuck between two layers of board, Lisa would later tell her, was a thick metal plate. Perfectly balanced, perfectly bulletproof. Sitting at the desk out front, a curiously vibrant potted plant next to his computer, was a Young Business Man.

 

The Young Business Man could be distinguished by his hair, and his acceptance-yet-contempt of dress code, and he was no different. A short mohawk of dark red hair crowned an otherwise shaven head. His tie was loosened, his suit jacket missing, and his sleeves rolled up to the reveal the intricate tribal tattoos weaving and winding their way up his arms. He looked up from his computer, flashed a set of very white teeth in what was probably intended to be a smile but didn't quite make it, and spoke. In speaking, this Young Business Man sort of broke Taylor's world for a second. “Ah, Guardian, Tattletale! Excellent! You're right on time!”

 

…

 

_Kenneth?_

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

The Director's office was a study in sheer sparsity. The wall behind the desk was a window, showing the sunny day outside, puffy white clouds drifting whimsically by. That was it, as far as decorations went. No, wait, hang on, there was a framed photograph on the filing cabinet within arm's reach of the desk. It was angled away, so Taylor couldn't see what the photo was of. Neither, she noticed, could the person sitting behind the desk. Why would someone have a photo framed they didn't want to look at? The desk was made of the same material as Kenneth's desk, with a boxy, outdated computer chugging away atop it. Sitting at that desk, watching them enter with hard, hooded eyes the color of ice, was Director Emily Piggot herself.

 

Taylor had – briefly – met the Director some two, three months back, and had come away from that momentary encounter with an impression of a woman not to be crossed. A woman of diamond will, formidable intellect, and indomitable determination at whatever purpose she set herself to. A soldier. A leader. A warrior willing and able to carry an entire city's woes on her shoulders and not shirk the weight. All in a woman's slowly failing body. For the Director _was_ dying. Visibly. Her once tall, muscular frame had stooped and gone to fat. Skin once healthy pink, though knotted in some places by scars, had sickened to a cement-gray. Though less obvious, a mind suited to command of soldiers and battlefields had been relegated to office workers and wading through the inanity of bureaucracy.

 

Director Emily Piggot was a woman whose body had failed her and knew it. A titan brought low. Now _that_ was poetic, and not in a good way. “You're here,” her voice was rough and hoarse, in the way of someone under a great deal of pain and hiding it. “right on time. Please, have a seat.”

 

Taylor settled almost timidly into her chair, somewhat awed by what she'd seen and inferred. Lisa, on the other hand, flopped into her chair so hard it slid six inches backwards. Taylor couldn't help but wince at the stuttering, guttural grunting sound the chair made as it moved. It sounded unnaturally loud. Then, some strange remnant of the dozen or so meetings she sat in on her dad having when he or her mom hadn't been able to find a babysitter bubbled up from the depths of her memory and informed her what to do next. “Thank you for seeing us.”

 

“Yeah,” Lisa's bright green eyes were narrowed somewhat, focused. There was a slight cant to her head that told Taylor she was thinking fast and hard. “thanks. Though I am curious as to why.”

 

The Director folded her hands, lacing her fingers together and placing them on her desk. There was a pause, as if weighing which word to use and how to use it. Then, “I asked you and your teammate to come because of your actions in Florida.”

 

“You'll have to be more specific,” Lisa again. “a lot of things happened.”

 

“Fair enough. _Specifically_ , how you managed to track, lure, fight, and kill an A-Class, kill-order threat without getting killed.”

 

Why, Taylor wondered, would the Director of the PRT _here_ , in Brockton Bay, want to know that?

 

Oh. Right.

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

Taylor freed one of her hands, having wrung them together at some point, to give it a little, awkward lift. Drawing attention to herself, she then asked, “Do you – is this because you think we're going to...” the words didn't come for a moment. “run around, shooting people willy nilly?” Her dignity crawled into a blanketed corner to die at that. She then blurted, “Because we're not.”

 

Lisa, having somehow avoided dropping her face into her palms so hard it left an imprint, stepped in. “What my partner is trying to say is – ”

 

The Director interrupted her. “I understood perfectly and, as reassuring as a good number of my peers – Director Jones among them – would find such a promise, there are some who prefer more...visible...commitment.”

 

_Visible commitment_ ? There was something about how that phrase was put to her that made Taylor's hackles raise. Not out of anger, but concern. Concern, and a small amount of claustrophobia. This strange combination of emotions more or less overrode her nervousness and timidity to let her eyes narrow and lock gazes with the Director. “You'll have to be more specific. That could mean a lot of things.” 

 

The Director sighed. “All right. Fine. Can we agree to be as frank with each other as politeness allows?” At her and Lisa's nods, she continued. “Excellent. Now, what I'm supposed to do here is try and get both of you into the Wards program. You, Guardian, make my superiors especially nervous.” 

 

Taylor's entire face showed her shock. “Me? Why?!” 

 

Lisa was the one who answered. “Because you're an able, driven, dangerous unknown whose proven herself perfectly willing to kill.” She didn't sound happy at revealing that. Taylor certainly wasn't happy hearing it. 

 

The Director nodded. “And you, Tattletale, have shown yourself to have a worrying ability to ferret out information most would prefer to stay hidden.” 

 

“So...what?” Taylor asked, biting off her words a tad more forcefully than she had not five minutes ago. “What's the point of this meeting, then? If I'm so dangerous, and Tails is so worrisome, why aren't you...” 

 

“Threatening, browbeating, or otherwise trying to strong-arm you into the program?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The Director shrugged. “Because I don't think it will work. I think trying to pressure the two of you into anything will only accomplish the opposite of what we intend. In addition, Guardian's donation of her half of the bounty garnered a not inconsiderable amount of goodwill that even the wariest of directors have had to acknowledge.” She reached into a folder and produced what appeared to be a printed e-mail. “This is an e-mail sent by the Wards both here in Brockton Bay and under Director Jones' supervision. It says, in no uncertain terms, that they feel you and your team would do more good without the regulations and requirements of the Protectorate. Frankly, I agree.”

 

“You do?” Lisa, looking no less intently at the Director than she had at the meeting's start. “That's...you know we're going to do this again, right? Swamp Thing was only the first.”

 

“I do. I'm going to tell you girls something. I've never told this to anyone else, and I want your word it will never leave this room.” Once they'd given them, she continued. “I do not believe that anyone _deserves_ to die. Through their actions, they may _earn_ their death, but _deserve_ it? No. It frustrates me to no end that there are those out there who have earned their death and not had it given to them. What your team is doing, Guardian, is something I believe to be a good thing. My greatest frustration is that, thus far, it's two underage girls doing it. This is nothing to do with your age, or a question of your ability. You need...” A hand clenched in a fist, then relaxed. “you need support. You need supplies. You need _help_. And it galls me that I cannot give it to you.”

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

That was...

 

It...

 

Huh.

 

Taylor didn't know what to think. Her mind was actually, genuinely blank. Surprise was the least, meanest word she could give to the feeling rendering her without her ability to speak. Or, indeed, make sounds at all. This woman, Director Emily Piggot, had just delivered the most confusing declaration possible. This woman was a member of the Protectorate, an organization whose sole purpose was the organization and policing of capes. Here was a highly place member, a Director, telling them that not only did she not want to organize or police them, she wanted to break the rules of _her own organization_.

 

It – it didn't make any sense. This woman should have done anything short of actual, physical violence to get them to join the Wards or at least extract some kind of promise to stop. Stop killing, stop traveling, stop being Guardian and Tattletale, knights errant. But she didn't, and Taylor didn't have the foggiest fucking idea why. Unless...

 

She proceeded to make a series of leaps in logic and assumptions that would have dizzied the most jaded stunt performer. Once upon a time, Emily Piggot had been a soldier. Not just a soldier. No, she was a soldier with enough grit to be the only survivor of a doomed raid against a murderous, super-powered psychopath. She and she alone walked out of Ellisburg before the walls went up. She alone stood toe with the Goblin King's misshapen hordes long enough to escape. A woman like that would want...retribution. For the townspeople who died, for the soldiers and capes who died, for the injuries that crippled her body. A woman like that would not want anyone else to experience the horrors she had, would want to see it done herself, and no longer could.

 

What kind of bitterness would that helplessness create, in a woman like Emily Piggot? A woman of action, relegated to a chair by the failings of her own body and the organization she belonged to. Taylor imagined how frustrated she must be. How angry. How full of an impotent desire to do something, _anything_. Such a woman would take any advantage she could, to see the right thing done.

 

Such a woman _might_ be the Director. Who _might_ send them back home with a promise to keep an ear out for anyone looking to do good without joining the Protectorate.

 

 

=+= Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please =+=

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This here's one of them there potentially divisive chapters. 
> 
> Is Piggot justified in what she says and does? 
> 
> Why do Lisa and Taylor waffle between submissive and confrontational in seconds? 
> 
> Why does this chapter end with almost a whole page of supposition? 
> 
> Divisive. Potentially.


	24. Variety Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a variety of things happen.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 24: Variety Hour**

 

A few weeks after Taylor was thoroughly confused by everything that came out of Director Emily Piggot's mouth, she'd gotten a particularly strong urge to go out and explore something. Anything. The instinct was to wander, it wasn't specific as to where. Which was how she found herself sitting on the prow of the good ship _Marianne_ , kicking her legs back and forth through the empty air. At one point in time, it had been a successful fishing trawler, plowing through cresting breaks to gather massive nets teeming with future profits. Salted, weather-beaten men worked the deck, swearing up a blue streak and hauling lines through calloused hands. A captain, ballcap in place, smelling of coffee and cigarette smoke, would shout orders through his open cabin door. It was a nice picture she painted, rendered bittersweet by the rusted hulk it had become. Beached and buried in the Boat Graveyard.

 

Also, it had a really great view of the Bay's skyline. The sun warmed her back and stained the glass buildings orange and pink as it set. Then her phone pinged. This particular ping meant a text message. She dug it out, saw the text came from Lisa, and opened it.

 

_L: Pizza and planning at base. You in?_

 

She hummed, considering. On the one hand, she was really digging this spot. High up, hidden, and all hers. On the other hand, it was a near perfect temptation. Hot food, hot girl, and hot superhero shenanigans.

 

_T: Be there in ten_.

 

After tucking her phone away, she stood, brushed her pants off, and hurled herself off the prow of the _Marianne_. She touched down on the aft transom that was all that remained of an entire ship and danced along the narrow width of rusted metal. Then she vaulted up and over the top of a smaller boat, fell ten feet to the ground with a flex of her knees, and sprinted off towards her base. As she ran, she hoped that there never came a day when superhero parkour stopped being awesome. That would be a very sad day. A very sad day, indeed.

=+= Chapter 24: Variety Hour =+=

 

Lisa was in fine form when Taylor showed up. A pencil served to hold together a knot of white-blonde hair at the base of her skull while another was held between a set of full, pink, _enticing_ lips. She'd crossed her legs and placed them on her desk, tilting her chair back to a dangerous angle to achieve this. The laptop on her thighs – _stop it, Taylor –_ was braced by her hands to keep it from sliding down onto her belly. On screen, information, command prompts, and data files slid by at incredible speed.

 

There was also the smell of pizza throughout the entire place, and since her partner was hard at work, Taylor elected to follow her nose. Soon she found it – a glorious ten inches of cheeses, meats, and crust. After a moment's thought, and fishing around for a paper plate, she took two slices, reconsidered, and took a third. She meandered back to their office area, taking a huge bite on the way. She wasn't going to say she chewed extra loudly to be annoying, but she wasn't _not_ saying it.

 

“Stop that.” Lisa's words came without heat, mumbled through an otherwise occupied mouth. “I know you're doing it on purpose.”

 

Taylor put her food on her desk, comparatively empty to the other one next to her, and flopped into her chair. Then, without saying a word, she took another loud, obnoxious bite.

 

A sigh. “You'll have to be killed for this, you realize.”

 

Mouth full, Taylor replied. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“ _Sure._ Course you don't. You're just sitting pretty and eating. You would _never_ purposely annoy me, your beloved partner, would you?”

 

“Uh uh.” Taylor shook her head, then took another bite. “Never ever.”

 

Somehow, Lisa didn't seem convinced. She rolled her eyes and then threw her pencil at Taylor, who snatched it out of the air and spun it between her fingers before flicking it up into a spin, then caught it between her thumb and pointer finger. Then it was thrown over her shoulder to clatter on the floor.

 

“Showoff.” Lisa grumbled with a smile. “Look,” she heaved her legs off her desk and took a less dangerous position. “we can bicker and banter, or get down to business.” Taylor opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted. “No, wait. I'm revoking your voting privilege. We're getting down to business.”

 

“Fine.” Taylor pouted for a moment before curiosity got the better of her. “What have you been working on?”

 

Lisa's eyes gleamed in the reflected, digital light of her laptop screen. “ _I_...have made a List.”

 

The List, and Lisa insisted it be pronounced with a capital L, was in essence a series of things that she felt Needed to Happen before any more bounties could be claimed. It was a series of dossiers on capes she felt would be willing to join or consider joining their team, some Tinkers who were willing to supply arms and armor in bulk, Directors she felt that would be willing to stand up for them in the political arena. That kind of thing, put together with the kind of detail and speed only someone cheating through copious use of superpowers could accomplish.

 

“So...yeah.” Lisa looked immensely pleased with herself. And also like she was dealing with the onset of a headache. “What do you think we should do first?”

 

Taylor leaned forward, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she thought. “I think we should reach out. Talk to some independent capes, see who's willing to hear us out.”

 

“Sounds good. Who first?”

 

She hummed. “How about...Foil?”

 

=+= Chapter 24: Variety Hour =+=

 

An e-mail was drafted, discarded, re-drafted, bickered over, and finally sent before the matter was put to bed. Until they got an answer, anyway. But that was for later. For now, it turned out, was an awkward silence. For once, it wasn't Taylor's fault. As far as she could tell, at least. It was a nice change of pace to not be the awkward one. It seemed pizza did wonders to soothe one's own inability. So that left Lisa. Which was plainly impossible. Lisa was confident in almost everything she did, gregarious and outgoing and not awkward in any way. Which was why it couldn't be her filling the air of their little subterranean base with a heated tension.

 

Except it was. She had her hands wound together, her shoulders were tensed and slightly hunched, she was very pointedly _not_ looking at Taylor. Sympathy welled in her, having been there before. In public, no less. Lisa had something she wanted to say and no idea how. If it were Taylor, she would have kept quiet until the person she wanted to talk to prompted her, but her partner had a bit more of a social spine, because, “Hey, uh, Taylor?” Lisa was mumbling, and rushing over her words, but was speaking.

 

Taylor wondered if there was pizza sauce on her face. “Yeah?”

 

“I was just – just wondering something.”

 

There was. There had to be. She swiped her palm over her chin, found nothing, and then checked her cheeks. Still nothing. So, then, what...?

 

Lisa snorted a laugh. “There's nothing on your face, I just...wanted to ask you something.”

 

_You said as much_ , Taylor almost said, but refrained out of solidarity. “Ask away.”

 

A heavy, pregnant pause, then a sigh. With a head hung low, Lisa asked, “Do you like me?”

 

Everything sort of...stopped. Taylor's breath caught in her throat. Her heart froze, every part of her body went still. It would be easy, more or less, to simply laugh and say something like _of course I do, we're friends_ but that wouldn't be the answer her partner was looking for. It would be _an_ answer, and true, but heavy in the air between them was the meaning behind that word. She'd been holding the answer to that question for a long time. Now she was finally asked it, and instead of bursting forth it stuck, caught alongside her frozen breath. She opened her mouth, intending to force it out, and managed instead only a croak.

 

Quietly, almost too quiet to hear – a small, sad sigh. Then, louder, “Forget I said anything. I gotta – there's a thing I need to get to, and –”

 

“Yes.” It came out in a rush. “So very much. Like, to a probably unhealthy amount.” Then, because she couldn't stop herself. “Do you like me?”

 

“Uh... _yeah_.”

 

It was a good thing, Taylor decided, that there was no one else around. They would never let either of them forget how stupidly they were grinning at each other. Or how hard her heart was pounding in her chest.

 

=+= Chapter 24: Variety Hour =+=

 

Taylor stared at Lisa. Lisa stared right back.

 

... _now what?_

 

It was a completely valid, utterly terrifying question. She'd thought about this moment, hoped for it, and dreamed about it on a few naughty occasions, but had no idea about how to progress. Do they kiss now? She'd just eaten like, three slices of pizza and _had_ to have something in her teeth. Not to mention her breath. Did they _not_ kiss instead? Was it too soon to even think about kissing? Were they supposed to hug instead? A handshake? _What the fuck was supposed to happen now?!_

 

“Taylor. Stop freaking out.”

 

“ _I'm not_ –”

 

“Yes you are. Stop it.”

 

“But – !”

 

Having somehow managed to find a source of calm and collected to draw from, Lisa explained it all, “Taylor, sweetie.” There was a little thrill at the word, even though she'd heard it dozens of times before then. “We like each other. There's – there's uh, no plan to follow or – or a script or...anything like that. We'll just...figure it out, yeah?”

 

“So. Um. Where do we start?” Taylor asked.

 

Lisa hummed, tilting her head side to side. She tapped her lips with her finger. Then, “Ha! Got it. We...are going on a date.”

 

Taylor opened her mouth. Then closed it. That was...anticlimactic. She cleared her throat. “Uh, sounds good. But, what are we gonna do?”

 

Terror shot straight through her soul when Lisa waved an airy, dismissive hand. “We'll figure it out.”

 

=+= Chapter 24: Variety Hour =+=

 

They parted ways not long after that, because, well, how exactly did one move past such an acknowledgment? Well. Taylor _could_ think of a few methods, but they were probably inappropriate. No, _definitely_ inappropriate. Especially for people who hadn't been on their first date yet.

 

Oh, God. She was going on a date. Soon.

 

What's worse, she now had to tell her dad that not only was she going on a date, she was going to do so with another girl.

 

…

 

Hooray.

 

How to do this? Best to be quick, she decided. Do it all at once, like tearing off tape stuck to skin, or brushing a nasty tangle out of your hair. It will be terrible no matter what is done, so...be fast. Just say it. Just open her mouth and...

 

Say it. Right. She could do that.

 

She was in her living room before she was ready for it. The TV was on, some fishing program at low volume being ignored by her dad. He had the day's paper spread over his knees, and was fishing through it for stories or – more likely – any signs of incoming work for his Union. Company mergers, vehicle prototypes, it was all above or beyond her, but he somehow knew what meant what and for whom. He was good like that. When he noticed her, he startled a bit, smiled, and got up to give her a hug. “Hey, kid! How was all that stuff I'm not supposed to know about?”

 

She returned the hug, nose full of his shampoo and the faint scent of the detergent they used. Her nose was weird like that. “I'm not supposed to tell you about it,” she pulled away after a satisfying amount of time. “but if I was, I'd say great. There could have been pizza, I'm not saying.”

 

He hummed. “Was the hypothetical pizza good?”

 

“Very. In theory.”

 

A laugh. He ruffled her hair. “Well, next time you see her, give Lisa my best, will you?”

 

There. An opening if she ever saw it. _Capitalize, Taylor._ “Will do.” _Wuss._ “Actually, uh, about that?”

 

He peered at her over his paper, having retaken his seat while she just sort of stood there like a lump. “Yeah? You guys having a get together soon?”

 

“S-something like that.” Then, “We're going on a date.” Except it sounded more like, “Weeergoanadate.” so her dad could be forgiven for being confused.

 

“What was that?”

 

_Deep breath. This isn't_ that _scary._ “We are going on a date. As in, Lisa and I, are going on a date. With each other.”

 

He hummed again. “Okay. Have fun!”

 

...What?

 

=+= Chapter 24: Variety Hour =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME ON 'GUARDIAN'
> 
> Will Taylor explode from pent up lust? 
> 
> Will Sabah overreact and create drama? 
> 
> Will Lisa give it up on the first date? 
> 
> FIND OUT NEXT TIME
> 
> ON 'GUARDIAN'
> 
> I realized recently that this story is already longer than the first Harry Potter book. I'm not sure how to feel about that.


	25. Rated 'D' for Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone has no sense of balance, someone else freaks out, and a kid is annoying.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 25: Rated D for 'Date'**

 

It was happening.

 

Tonight was the night. She, Taylor Hebert, was going on a date.

 

She wasn't panicking. Not one bit.

 

…

 

Oh, God.

 

In half an hour, she would be going on her first date. Ever. And she was going ice skating. She'd never been ice skating before. Hadn't wanted to, really, not until the words “ _ we're going ice skating _ ” spilled from Lisa's well formed lips. Now she found herself wanting to very much indeed, despite having no skill and no idea what she was supposed to wear. Also, she had no idea why that mattered so much. Lisa had seen her in costume, in plainclothes, covered in blood and in mud, sweaty and gross and everything in between. If that hadn't soured her opinion of Taylor, wearing the wrong pants certainly wouldn't. Logic dictated this, and was promptly ignored. Or perhaps  _ overruled  _ would fit better given how the cool, calm reassurance offered by reason seemed awfully tiny in the face of her rising panic, eagerness, fear, and the idea that maybe if she fell over just right while skating, Lisa would land on her and then –  _ stop that, Taylor _ . 

 

When, exactly, did she become such a pervert? This hadn't been a problem before. In fact, until after she became a Guardian, she couldn't really say when she last  _ had  _ a sexual thought. Which seemed odd for a fifteen year old girl. This train of thought also seemed odd, yet in keeping with the new theme of her being a pervert, but that was no excuse to continue it. So she stopped and returned to her closet. Most of the contents of which were actually on her bed. 

 

She kind of wanted to tear her hair out, actually. Her clothes, none of which she'd had problems with as recently as yesterday, were now almost entirely unacceptable. She didn't know what to do, and it wasn't like she could call Sabah because...well...even Taylor could see that being more awkward and painful than helpful. Even though she could clearly hear Sabah's voice in her head telling her not to be stupid, she refrained from reaching for her phone.

 

So she fretted. Chewed her lip and paced and threw shirts around and generally acted like she was having some sort of episode. Eventually, the ticking clock and desperation drove her to a decision. She dressed, and had  _ just  _ stepped out of her room when the doorbell rang. 

 

_ Fuck _ . 

 

=+= Chapter 25: Rated D for 'Date' =+=

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I'm not saying anything.”

 

“Shut _up_.”

 

“ _I'm not saying anything_...buuut if I was, it would be something like, 'This was your idea, Lisa, how could you be this bad at ice skating?'”

 

“....sposdtbermantic...”

 

“What?”

 

“I said...it's _supposed_ to be _romantic_! I am trying to ro _mance_ you. And I'm doing it with a giant wet spot on my favorite jeans.”

 

“Oh. Um...”

 

“That was a lot dirtier than it was supposed to be.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Well, it is _now_. So...how about we uh, _skate_ on past this piece of awkward and laugh about how I can't seem to stay upright?”

 

“S-so you're saying you're eager to be on your back?”

 

…

 

…

 

“ _Wow_.”  
  


“...sorry.”

 

“Where did that even come from?”

 

“I don't know. Hey, did you see that kid just wipe out?”

 

“Don't change the subject, Taylor.”

 

“I'm not! He just slid across the whole rink and took out that ice dancing class. It was kind of awesome.”

 

“You can't get away from this. We are going to talk about how you, apparently, have a dirty mind. I did not know this about you, but I should have guessed. It's always the quiet ones.”

 

“I do _not_ have a dirty mind!”

 

And so it went.

 

=+= Chapter 25: Rated D for 'Date' =+=

 

Then, came to an end.

 

Taylor ached for it not to. After nearly dying of embarrassment in the beginning, she spent the rest of their time on the ice slowly going to goo from just how _perfect_ it all was. The _chunk-chunk-chunk_ of Lisa's skates digging in as she continually failed to gain any skill or balance. How that led to her holding Lisa up, wrapping an arm around her waist that stayed far too long yet neither commented on. How, after letting go, Taylor found her hand being taken, gloved fingers twining with hers. Lisa's hand, warm and solid in her own. How, at the very end, cheeks cold-air red, there was a brief moment where they were holding each other up where they were so close she could feel Lisa's breath on her face. She could feel the entirety of Lisa's body pressed against her own. Warmth seeped in. It was a fluttering eye, thundering heart, almost kiss of a moment.

 

And that dumb kid ruined it. The same one who kept slide tackling the ice dancers decided that two girls made a better target than a whole bunch of adults and plowed into them. There was a brief, all too candid moment where Taylor honestly considered beating the shit out a kid four years younger than her. He must have seen his impending bruising in her eyes, because he all but crawled in his haste to escape. She turned her attention back to Lisa, searching for that close, intimate moment. But it was gone.

 

It all came to an end not too long after that when Lisa announced she was hungry. Or rather, her stomach did – with a long, rumbling, rather hilarious growl. So they made their way back to the benches, where they would exchange skates for shoes and head out to feed the beast. Or beasts, as Taylor was starting to feel the pangs of hunger herself. Anyway. It was as they were leaving that Lisa, balance restored and with entirely too much hesitation in her voice, asked, “So...did I do good?”

 

Taylor's free hand, for she was still holding onto her partner, trembled as she mustered her courage for what she was about to do. She swallowed, hoped her breath didn't stink, and just...did it. She swooped in, aiming to kiss Lisa on the cheek and say something like, 'That answer your question?'. That didn't happen. What did happen was this: probably concerned by her lack of a response, Lisa turned to see what was wrong the very instant Taylor's lips would have pressed against her cheek. They instead brushed over her nose until some magnetic force drew them down to her lips.

 

Thus did Taylor's first kiss occur; entirely by accident and lasting less than two seconds. If she possessed the ability, she would implode from embarrassment were the entirety of her mind not fixated on _I kissed Lisa I kissed Lisa holy fucking jumping shitballs I kissed Lisa._

 

Lisa's eyes were wide, surprise writ large on every feature. She licked her lips, and said, “Uh...okay. I guess – I guess that means...yes?”

 

Taylor didn't know whether to apologize or try again for a better result. For the first time since becoming a Guardian, indecision paralyzed her.

 

“Okay, um, I'm going to assume from how you look like a poleaxed deer you didn't mean to do that?”

 

She shook her head. Lisa's expression, for just a moment, showed something that looked a lot like sadness. Words came to her in a flood. “It's not that I didn't _want_ to do that, I just – I didn't want to rush things but I'm not sorry I did it and oh God this whole thing just happened in the parking lot.”

 

As one, they turned to the entrance. That kid waved.

 

=+= Chapter 25: Rated 'D' for Date =+=

 

There was no real way to recover from that. So they didn't. Lisa drove her home in what had to be the most painfully awkward silence of her life. Several times she tried to say something – apologize or explain or something, anything to make the quiet go away. She couldn't. Even the most socially adept would have struggled in this situation, and she knew her own ability to be far less. She spent the ride berating herself, riding a whirlpool of _I'm an idiot_ and _what was I thinking_ down into the deep, dark depths of a proper sulk.

 

They stopped in front of her house. She couldn't say a word. Lisa wouldn't. The only sounds were the gentle rumble of the engine and of their breathing. Both of them were taking slow, measured breaths. For her it was an effort to keep from bursting into tears and another flood of words. She wouldn't begin to guess why Lisa was doing it. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't last another second in the car's stiflingly tense air. The snap and hiss of her seat-belt unbuckling was dully loud and she glanced at Lisa just in time to see her look away in turn.

 

That tore it. She was leaving. Her fingers fumbled their way into gripping the door handle and she mumbled “Guess I'll see you later.” through lips that wanted to tremble and pushed open the door. She was almost out when she was stopped by slender fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hope soared in her. She turned.

 

Lisa's green eyes seemed vast and glittering and deep. She was so close. Close enough to kiss, but that had –

 

“I'm sorry.” Lisa whispered against her mouth. She kissed Taylor again, deeper, sweeter. When she pulled away, her eyes glistened. “I...I need to tell you something, and I have to figure out how to say it. Can I call you tonight?”

 

Taylor's capacity for speech was long gone. She nodded. Lisa nodded back, let go of her wrist. The door closed, and Lisa drove away. Taylor stood there for a long second. Her heart was pounding hard enough to hurt, her lips tingled, and she wanted to cry and laugh and tear her hair out. She headed inside, barely aware of her own motion, thinking that there had better be a _damn_ good explanation coming.

 

=+= Chapter 25: Rated 'D' for Date =+=

 

It was taking a considerable amount of effort to be patient. This time, she knew for certain it had nothing to do with being a Hunter. She was so full of tension and anxiety that she'd near worn a divot in the floor during dinner. Noticing that his daughter had accelerated her heel-tapping to hitherto unseen levels, her dad asked that he be brought into the loop. Well. Not so much 'asked' as 'sat Taylor down and told her that, barring murder or selling drugs to puppies, she could do nothing to make him disappointed in her, so let's hear it.' It worked, and the entire thing came tumbling out of her. Halting, then in a flood. He listened, digested, visibly prepared himself, and told her that in regards to this, his advice would undoubtedly make things worse.

 

She threw her hands up, made a little squeak of frustration through clenched teeth, and went to be anxious in her room. If he was going to be unhelpful, he could do it alone. It was only a few seconds before she thought she might have made a mistake. Now it was just her alone with –

 

Her phone rang. Once. In that time she'd dived across her bed to snatch it up and open it. Breathless, slowly riding her comforter down to the floor, she said, “Lisa?”

 

A short pause. “ _Wow. I'm_ really _not doing a good job of this, am I?_ ”

 

Not even a little bit, she didn't say.

 

Lisa continued. “ _So...yeah. Sorry._ ”

 

Taylor cleared her throat. “It's – uh – it's okay. I'm...probably not being very helpful.”

 

“ _What? No. Nonono. This is, like,_ entirely _about me. And! I can prove it! Buuut I need to tell you a story first. A story about, well...me._ ”

 

“I – okay. I'm...I'm listening.”

 

“ _Okay. Um, imagine for a second you have this condition. It's not – it's not fatal, or contagious, but there's not treatment, no cure, and you're stuck with it for the rest of your life. And, you know, bonus; this condition makes it impossible to have a relationship with anyone. Ever. You are doomed to a life alone and it..._ really... _sucks, but you learn to deal. Adapt. Relationships may be impossible, but if you're careful, you can maybe manage a friend. You, uh, you with me so far?_ ”

 

Taylor's imagination was working against her ability to speak, filling her head with images of such a sad and lonely life. She managed an affirmative sounding noise, which seemed to be good enough, for Lisa continued.

 

“ _So, you live like this for a few years. You don't_ recover _so much as get_ used _to it. You make up little games to keep yourself optimistic or at least sane. Then it happens. You meet that person. The one who bulls right through the little, coping mechanism filled world you've built and reminds you that you haven't been living so much as existing. Then the impossible. They want to be with you. They want to – to love you, or at least_ make _love to you. Imagine how scary that hope would be._ ”

 

Taylor's voice was hoarse as she replied. “I don't have to.”

 

“ _I know. So..._ ” a sniffle. “ _yeah. When I got my powers, it was like that. I couldn't even touch somebody without knowing every shitty little detail about them. Their kinks, their fantasies, their neuroses, all of it, all at once. It got better,_ I _got better at using it, but it never really stops. Until you. I...I don't why, but when I look at you, you're all I see. My power just shuts up._ ”

 

“So why did you – ?”

 

“ _Act all cagey and run off?_ ”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“ _I got scared. I know I gave you all of the wrong impressions but I_ want _this, Taylor. I want – I want you. I want to be with you._ ” A pause. “ _And because you have a dirty mind and no filter to speak of, I know you want the same with me._ ”

 

“I am _not_ that obvious.”

 

“ _Sweetie, you_ so _are. When I called your dad to tell him I was taking you on a date, he just said 'finally' and hung up._ ”

 

“He did not.”

 

“ _He did._ ”

 

“That...explains a lot, actually. I – I do have a question, though.”

 

“ _Fire away_.”

 

“Do you think it'd, um, it'd be okay if I kissed you next time I saw you?”

 

“ _Only if I don't kiss you first._ ”

 

Smiles couldn't produce light, or Light for that matter, but Taylor would swear hers lit up the room.

 

=+= Chapter 25: Rated 'D' for Date =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this, we bring this subplot to a(hopefully) satisfactory end. 
> 
> Let me know?


	26. Somewhat Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old face isn't seen again, nobody robs a bank, and something gets hungry.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar**

 

Taylor was in Hell, and it consisted entirely of Lisa's warm, teasing kisses and the spicy heat of her scent. She whimpered when Lisa pulled her head to the side to press the wet silk of her lips against the flushed skin of her throat, sliding up to the base of her jaw. Blunt pressure closed around Taylor's earlobe as Lisa bit it gently before returning to plunder her mouth. She used the hand curled around Lisa's jean-clad thigh to pull her girlfriend deeper into her lap, and dragged the fingernails of the other across the skin uncovered by a stretchy white tank she was sure had been worn to torment her. She drank Lisa's sound of delight, smiling into their unbroken kiss as her hand slid upwards, covering the span of smooth skin with delighted speed. The tip of her finger brushed against the bottom of a bra strap.

 

Lisa shifted atop her, pulling her head away. Taylor followed and, unable to kiss her mouth, settled on the all-too-tempting elegance of her neck. When Lisa spoke, it was breathy and half hearted. “Slow your roll, baby.” The hand not buried in Taylor's hair came up to guide eager lips to places waiting impatiently. Never let it be said that she was a slow learner. “We – oh,  _ God _ – we've got all the time in the wo – world.” Even as she spoke, Lisa was dragging her palm up Taylor's leg towards her ass, a line of fire left in its wake. 

 

“Duh.” Her heart was pounding, thundering in her chest, beating so _hard_ against her ribs she thought it might burst. She felt light headed and antsy, wanting to do a thousand things at once and all of them to Lisa. The weight of her girlfriend on her lap made her want to shift her hips, to _roll_ them in a way she'd never considered. She managed to tear herself away from Lisa's throat to feel a roaring joy at the bright affection in those green eyes. Unbidden, her hand rose to trace the curve of Lisa's cheek, who leaned into it and kissed the inside of Taylor's wrist. The words tumbled out. “You're so fucking beautiful.” 

 

Lisa smiled, and dropped a kiss on her lips with every word, deepening with each one. “You're so... _fucking_...Beautiful. Too.” Then she opened her mouth against Taylor's, brushing her tongue against her lips and Taylor opened her mouth. Their tongues tangled together, twirling and swirling over each other and finding the taste to be a burning, delectable sweetness.

 

Yes, Taylor was in Hell.

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

“You know, we _did_ come here to work.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I mean, it's not that I don't like hot makeout sessions, because oh do I ever, but – you're not even listening, are you?”

 

Lisa, who had her face pressed into the crook of Taylor's neck, made a noise to the negative. She was currently draped across Taylor, limp and sweaty and so very very tempting. After a moment, without making any moves to go anywhere, she mumbled, “S'just an email. Foil's got back to us, is all.”

 

“That...that kinda can't wait, Lisa.”

 

“I _know_ , but I don't wanna move. You're comfy.”

 

Taylor huffed, somewhere between amused and offended. Then she decided she was too thoroughly kissed to be anything but lazily pleased. Through some creative footwork, she was able to roll the chair that had somehow managed to stay upright over to Lisa's desk. She nudged the unwilling girl. “Lisa. It's right there.”

 

Lisa grumbled and groaned, but managed to bring the laptop into her lap and open it up. The crown of her head rested against Taylor's jaw, flyaway threads of white-blonde hair threatening to go up her nose or into her mouth. Also, the bouquet of shampoo and sweat and something muskier was nice. “Okay. So...yeah, this is it. Read it and weep.”

 

She read it. There wasn't much weeping. Instead, a sort of bafflement. A sort of unwillingness to believe that someone, anyone would actually _want_ to join their...what were they calling this, anyway? Group? Team? Gaggle? Regardless, it was odd for her to learn that Foil was not only interested in joining, but also seemed oddly eager. Well, maybe not 'eager', per se, but something along those lines. There was a current running beneath the words Foil had written, a tone that Taylor couldn't quite put her finger on. It was somewhat concerning, but until they met in person – the next step in this process – she would just have to wait. She hated waiting.

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

Taylor's phone rang. It was several hours later, and she'd managed to pry herself away from Lisa and go on the errand she'd meant to do before being so delightfully, _deliciously_ distracted. It wasn't complicated – her dad had asked her to head down to Bay Central and order a new checkbook, seeing as their current one was getting a little...thin. It was a little intimidating every time she stepped into the building, from the overall bank-ish nature of the environment – marble, leather chairs, and seriousness – to the fact that this was the site Glory Girl had gone solo against a villain trio called the Outcasts and won. She imagined that, if she focused hard enough, she could hear the slide of footwork on the slick floors, the panting gasps for air and the roaring thunder of fists and energy that were mainstays in any cape battle. Her phone rang again, drawing her from her thoughts, and she hastened to answer it. “Hello?”

 

“ _You don't cawl!_ ”

 

Taylor blinked. “Sabah?”

 

“ _You don't write!_ ”

 

She sighed. “Sabah...”

 

“ _You don't come to visit no more! This new goil o' yois, she's bayad news, I tell you. Bayad news._ ”

 

“This is – Sabah, have you ever actually _been_ to New Jersey?”

 

The accent disappeared. “ _Not as – not as such, no. But I have watched a lot of reality TV. It's basically the same._ ”

 

And the last time it had come up, it was followed by a half hour argument between Sabah and her dad about the degradation of entertainment in the modern age. Taylor hadn't tried to intervene. Having her head bitten off did not appeal. “So...what's up?”

 

“ _What's_ up _is that I haven't seen you in like, a million years, and that needs to change. What are you doing right now?_ ” 

 

“Well, I'm at Bay Central. Dad asked me to get some checks made, so – here I am.”

 

Something tickled across the nape of Taylor's neck. A little insect made of something that sent shivers down her spine. Sabah in her ear said, “ _ Well, that's boring. _ ” and she looked around the lobby. What was it? What was out of place? She took advantage of her height and stood on her toes to peek over the top of the person in front of her. Nothing. “ _ Taylor? _ ” 

 

She twisted to look behind her, and found it.

 

Well. _Him._

 

=+= Chapter 26: Something Familiar =+=

 

He was tall, and thin. Black clothes, torn and dirty. Face hidden beneath a hood, deepened by unnatural shadows. Hands at his sides clenched and relaxed, grimy fingers twitching. He was standing in the alley across the street from the bank's front doors, and though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt their weight. Through glass and broken up by traffic her eyes were drawn to the stillness on one side of his trench coat, as if something were preventing it from moving in the day's breeze.

 

“ _Did the call drop? Has Leet hacked the cell towers again? Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, I've come from Ala – Taylor,_ say _something._ ”

 

“Hang on,” She stepped out of line, keeping the phone pressed to her ear. The thin man – she knew him, or he was at least familiar to her – stayed perfectly still as she made her way to and pushed through the glass double doors. “Something's up.”

 

Traffic rushed past, midday hurry keeping the streets too crowded for her to dart across. And she couldn't very well jump over, unless she was ready to move past the whole 'having a secret identity' thing. Sabah in her ear was quiet a moment, before her voice took on a worried tension. “ _A bad thing, right?_ ”

 

“Maybe.” His stillness was...wrong. Forced, almost. He clearly wanted to move, she could read the twitches in his shoulders and calves he thought were hidden. The desire – no, need to act was practically singing in him, and yet he was still. Why? “I don't know. There's someone here.”

 

“ _At the bank? Taylor, you're – you're scaring me, a little._ Who's _there?_ ”

 

That would be the question. One she couldn't answer. Could she? Something about the clothes, the darkness, the way he stayed in shadows and how they clung to him. It tickled her memory. She'd seen him before. Felt those eyes of his before, and thought they were creepy.

 

It came to her all at once.

 

The reason shadows cleaved to him was because he could control them, travel through them. The reason half his coat looked like there was something heavy in it was because there was, and it was a sword.

 

Taylor said his name, “Reaper.”

 

A truck blocked her vision. When it passed, he was gone. Carried away by shadows.

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

She went after him. Pushed through the doors, ran across the street, and into the alley. Stopped dead at the edge of the largest shadow. A shadow that was darker than it should be, and in the wrong place besides. Could he still be here? Could he be setting a trap? If so, _why_? She hadn't done anything to warrant being attacked by someone who, at least nominally, was a hero. Breaths hissed through her nose, bringing the trash-and-rot smell of the alley to her. Beneath was something else – gunpowder and rust. She didn't have her knife, and though she was never _truly_ unarmed, she felt its absence. Keenly.

 

Her phone gave a strangled chirp, causing her to jump and realize she'd cracked the casing. She hissed, chiding herself for being distracted, dropped the phone, and looked back to the shadow.

 

Reaper.

 

Less than a foot away.

 

This close she could see the tears in his clothes, their ragged edges telling her they were torn instead of cut. She could smell the bandages underneath, and the fresh blood beneath them. He stank of sweat, and of blood. It was this, and the near-unnoticeable sway in his stance, that kept her from following her first impulse and repeatedly denting his face with her fists. It didn't stop her heart from commencing to beat a double march against her breastbone or the icy flood of adrenaline from flooding her system. If it turned out her mind was wrong, her body would be ready to fight.

 

“Hello, Guardian.” Reaper's voice was a ragged whisper. Not gravelly, or growled. Just tired, and full of pain. “I apologize for startling you, but...I had very little choice.”

 

Before Taylor could react, he fell. Like a cut-string puppet, dropping towards the ground. Instinct and reflex had her catch him. He was heavier than he looked, as well as lighter than he should be. As she slowly bore him to the ground, she couldn't stop herself from wondering _what happened?_

 

It was followed by _what exactly am I supposed to do now?_

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

Now that Taylor thought about it, this hadn't been her best idea. Sue her, she panicked.

 

“You brought him _here_?!”

 

“It wasn't – I didn't – he _fell_ on me, and he was _bleeding!_ ”

 

“So? That doesn't translate to 'hey, let's bring the mentally unstable vigilante to our secret base'!”

 

She could still feel the sticky blood, drying between her fingers, sticking to her skin. She'd been on her way to clean when she'd been interrupted by Lisa who, perhaps understandably, wasn't taking this very well. Abruptly she left Reaper lying on the floor, head pillowed on a folded exercise mat, and headed towards the bathroom. Over her shoulder, “I couldn't take him to the hospital!”

 

Lisa followed. “Why not? No, seriously. What would have been wrong with taking him to the hospital? They treat capes all the time.”

 

Taylor made a frustrated sound. “I don't...” the blood was tacky, she had to dig and pick at them with her nails. It came free in pieces; more than she could say for her costume, which had been sent away to a discreet laundering service named Sabah. “I didn't plan on it, okay?”

 

“I think you did.” Lisa's tone had shifted from angry to something a little more thoughtful, some puzzle about the day's... _events_...distracting her somewhat. She chewed lip, having picked that up from Taylor at some point. “I think you meant to bring him somewhere you thought was safe.”

 

“Then I would have taken him _home._ ” There. The last speck was gone. She was clean. “Wouldn't I?”

 

“Safe for _him_ , babe.” Lisa looped her arms around Taylor's waist, hugging her from behind. “ _You –_ you are safe pretty much anywhere. Nobody wants to end their day in a scrap with you. They're afraid. ”

 

“It's not – I'm not like tha– ”

 

“ _I_ know that. Danny – gah, that still feels weird – and Sabah know that. But we're getting off track. There are five people, _in the world_ , who know about this place. We're two of them. Odds are good that Reaper can hide here, can heal here, and you decided that so fast you didn't know it. That's...weird.”

 

“Thanks, Lisa. I think.”

 

“Here to help. Now, let's go see what Mister Shadow has to say.”

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

Sadly for Lisa's sense of timing, Reaper didn't wake up until the next morning. Groggy and weak, but still lucid – and determined – enough to make it to a chair. Each movement prompted a small pained noise from him, but he still gratefully accepted a mug of tea when Taylor offered one. He sipped, shadows peeling away to expose his mouth and jaw. He spoke, and his disconnected jaw moving about looked incredibly weird. “You have my thanks, Guardian, Tattletale, as well as my apologies. I would have rather not imposed on you as I have, but I knew of no one else capable enough.”

 

Lisa was frowning hard, silent, so Taylor asked for her. “Capable enough for what?”

 

Reaper sighed, lowering the mug into his lap. “Are you aware of the disappearances in this city?”

 

“You'll have to be specific. People disappear here a lot.”

 

“Homeless, addicts, vagabonds and vagrants. These are the ones who are disappearing now.”

 

Lisa spoke. “You think they're being targeted.”

 

Reaper's lips quirked. “I _know_ they are. I met the thing taking them. The result is what you see.”

 

Something caught Taylor's attention. “Thing? Not person or people?”

 

A slow shake of a head. “No. If this thing were human, it was long ago. Now, a monster. It takes living things and... _changes_ them. Forgive me, I haven't the gift of words to describe what I saw. Where once stood a living thing now stands a monster, in service to a greater beast. It is here, in our city, and it is _hungry_.”

 

=+= Chapter 26: Somewhat Familiar =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LEZZY KISSING OMG CALL JACK VALENTI
> 
> Or don't, cuz he's dead. 
> 
> Anyway, um, I hope that scene wasn't terrible.
> 
> Also, this marks our next arc of the story. Go team!


	27. Pattern Recogntion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone does some walking, someone else has only one leg, and someone else is vaguely creepy.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition**

 

There was a concern to be addressed before progress could be made. That concern being firepower, and more specifically that Taylor did not feel as if she possessed enough. Which was of course ridiculous. Even with just her knife and bow she was plenty dangerous, and more than content to live a firearms free life. Or she'd thought as much, anyway. It was a strange contradiction of desires. One side wanting a thing, the other wanting its opposite. What exactly was she supposed to do in a situation like this, with her instinct and reason in conflict? This concern was of course compounded by the weight of more than fifty missing people. The exact number was hard to determine, even for a Thinker of Lisa's caliber, but it was at least that much. Could she argue with herself about such a thing while so many lives hung in the balance? She found the answer to be no, she could not. So she squashed that reluctance, and set about finding herself some guns. 

 

She tried John first. Her reasoning had been simple; former soldier, man of action and preparation, living in the Bay. It should naturally follow that he had at least two guns stashed about the place. He did not. She learned that John did not much care for guns, and in fact was against the idea of her having one in the first place. Vehemently. She left his place in a hurry.

 

There were really only two other options. First, she could mug a gang member/members and hope that they had some illegally acquired stuff for her to steal. Not her favorite idea. Or she could go the PRT. If she explained what was happening, shared her information, and stated in no uncertain terms that she would  _ not  _ be removing herself from this, they might – with some unofficial help – give her the firepower she needed. 

 

Or...

 

They might believe her, accept her information, and then state in no uncertain terms that they would  _ not  _ swarm blindly into action against a supposed, people-repurposing beast of unknown dimensions and capabilities and that, furthermore, they would  _ especially  _ not give guns to a teenage girl. Then, they would kindly show her the door. Or a holding cell disguised as guest quarters, to keep her from running off and getting herself killed. 

 

So she was up a creek. One that smelled like shit, with fifty or more human shaped outlines lining the dirty banks, and not a single, gun shaped paddle to help her out.

 

But. What if there was?

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

“Reaper?”

 

“Guardian. How may I help you?”

 

Shadows had peeled away from his jaw again, and it was just as creepy as the first time. That was the thing that stuck out the most about Reaper, to her. That despite his politeness, his strangely formal mode of speech, and the fact that he had not _once_ done anything threatening around her or hers, he was still...unsettling. _Off_ in a noticeable, unnameable way. Still, like she'd established, he'd never tried to kill her, so that put him above Swamp Thing, and the entirety of the Merchants. So she could sit on this feeling, like being around an exposed wire. Until this was done. “I need to ask you for something.”

 

“Well.” His lips quirked. “You saved my life, so whatever I can do to redress that balance, I will.”

 

How exactly was she supposed to answer that? “Good to hear. Um. I have my knife and – well, it's effective, certainly, but it's not... _enough_. I – I'm going to need more than just a knife, if we're going to go after this monster.”

 

Now they turned down at the corners, a look of near-distaste. “Firearms. That's what you ask of me.”

 

Now that she'd said it, she felt a bit more confident. “Yes. I was hoping you'd have some stashed around the city, and if that wasn't the case, you'd know someone who could help.”

 

Reaper was silent for a long moment. Quiet, and still. Not forced this time. Finally, “I...must admit that I find firearms to be lesser than the sword. Those that utilize the former tend to be brash and loud and abrasive, projecting a front of bravery to hide their insecurity and cowardice. Men of the sword, such as myself, they know their ability, and are confident enough in it that they need hide nothing.”

 

“That's...” Forget what he said earlier, how was she supposed to answer _that?_ Luckily, or perhaps the opposite, he wasn't finished.

 

“However, I am not a man so bound by his scruples that he is incapable of performing what is needed of him. So while I do not possess any caches, I do know a man – a woman, actually – who will act as our supplier.”

 

Taylor latched on to that bit of normality with desperate tenacity. “Great! That's – that's really great, Reaper. Who is she and where can I find her?”

 

She couldn't see the rest of his face, but she would swear on something very valuable that he was raising his eyebrows at her. “If I've given the impression that you'll be sent out alone, I must apologize. I meant to intimate that I will lead you to this woman, and help you procure what you need to continue.”

 

“Oh, that's...oh.”

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

Reaper's source was a short, squat, former SWAT officer named Alice Watts. She was muscle under fat under scarred black skin, the remnants of the incident that ended her career with the Brockton Bay Police Department. Her left hand was absent a thumb, index and middle fingers. Her right hand was gone, cheaply made prosthetic in place. Her left leg was in a thick brace, all pads and metal rods reinforcing something no longer capable of performing as it was supposed to. Her right was gone below the knee. This happened, she was willing to explain, because she responded to a domestic disturbance call in Empire territory, and Hookwolf made an 'example' of her. Alice's exact words were, “If I look like I fell headfirst into a fucking huge blender, that's because that's not far from what actually happened. Fucking Hookwolf. Glad he's dirt napping.”

 

That was the other thing. The reason Alice would be willing to supply Taylor with guns on the word of Reaper is because he is the reason Alice is still alive. He found her after Hookwolf dumped her in an alley to die and brought her to a hospital. Then, he tracked down the Nazi cape and killed him. Until now it had been one of the more high profile unsolved murders in the Bay. It still was for anyone who wasn't Alice, Taylor, or Reaper.

 

The three of them were sat in Alice's cramped, but clean kitchen. She spotted Taylor looking around and snorted. “Crippled, kid. Ain't useless. I can clean up my own damn house.”

 

Mortification turned Taylor into a bumbling, stuttering fool. Well, more of one. “I didn't mean to – I'm – ”

 

Alice snorted again. It seemed to be the closest she came to a laugh. “Ha, look at you. Damn. You make me feel old, kid. You gotta try a lot harder than that to upset me. So,” she turned her attention to the shadowed man standing by the doorway. “what are you doing here? Not for the company, you're not one for conversation.”

 

Reaper let the jibe slide without comment and cut straight to the point. It should figure he wasn't one for pleasantries. “I found the thing responsible for all the missing.”

 

Alice bared her teeth, grimacing, before clicking her tongue. “Didn't know anyone was looking, besides me. The fuck is it?”

 

“A beast. It clings to the bottom of this city and turns forgotten souls into its weapons. It – when I found it, I nearly died in effecting my escape.” He nodded to Taylor. “It is only thanks to Guardian and her allies that I survived. Now I – _we_ , that is – aim to destroy it.”

 

Alice clicked her tongue again, gave Taylor an appraising look. Whatever she saw, she approved of, because she nodded. “You're gonna need some firepower. You, there's a bag in the hall closet. Everything you'll need is in the basement. Kid, you're staying with me. I wanna hear about how a young thing like you ends up killing a swamp monster. Yeah, I heard about that. Now tell me the story, don't spare the gory details. Nothing shocks me anymore.”

  
Reaper, perhaps unsurprisingly, did exactly what he was told. Taylor, who was finding herself warming up to Alice – if only slightly – started talking.

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

The story took less time to tell than for Reaper to gather what they'd come to retrieve. By the time Taylor finished he had long since returned from the basement, a bulging canvas bag pulling at his shoulders. It was an oddly humanizing moment, to see him struggle with something heavy. When she finally finished laying the whole story out she realized that her voice had worn itself into having a little burr in the back of her throat and that she was very, very thirsty. She finished by borrowing a phrase from her girlfriend by shrugging and saying, “So...yeah. That's about it.”

 

Alice whistled through her teeth. “Well, I'll be damned.”

 

Reaper said nothing.

 

Taylor shrugged again, feeling awkward and antsy. She wanted to be out of that dim, strangely clean house. She wanted to be back at their base, or at home, or on the bow of that ship in the Graveyard, imagining herself plowing through cresting seas. Or, rather, she wanted to want those things. She wished that was what she wanted to do. No, she found herself longing for the contents of the bag by Reaper's feet. Her palms itched for the metal of a gun, as they once had for the handle of her knife. She wanted to delve into the depths of the city, find this monster, and kill it.

 

She wouldn't lie, it was somewhat alarming.

 

Alice stood suddenly, grunting with effort. The head of her cane squeaked from the increase of its burden. Taylor rose with her, concerned that the other woman might fall over or something, even though Alice had never displayed anything to indicate she would do so. The former cop waved her hook at Taylor. “You have that look in your eye, kid. Go do this thing, and when it's done, keep the guns. I can't use them anymore, they're just gathering dust here.” She did not sound happy about this.

 

They left, Reaper handing the bag off to her as soon as they were off of Alice's stoop, his hands flickering and shaking as if he'd just handled something dirty or diseased. They made their way to the van they'd driven here, a white paneled vehicle that Reaper did not own in any way. She put the bag in the back, carefully, and climbed in after them. Reaper got in the driver's seat, the engine coughed into life, and they were off.

 

Okay, Taylor thought, time for phase two.

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

Phase two. It'd be a lot easier, she suspected, to embark on phase two if she had a concrete idea of what it was. As it stood there was a nebulous series of 'needs to happen' floating about her mind. The first and biggest of which was where to begin. According to the data Reaper had provided, each of the fifty disappeared were taken from within a three block radius of one building; the condemned Endbringer shelter below Harper's Laundry. Well, that's what the faded paint on the wall _said_ it had been. The builders of the shelter, some company, Taylor couldn't remember which, certainly hadn't cared. They hadn't given much thought to construction, either, which was why the shelter was condemned and that company was out of business.

 

So that was the first 'needs to happen' taken care of. Her dad was using one of the many contacts in his Rolodex to help Lisa get hold of the plans for the area. Apparently, he frowned on the idea of his daughter's girlfriend being willing to engage in criminal activity. Shady, on the other hand, he didn't seem to have too much of a problem with. At any rate the plans were soon projected on the wall, and Lisa was pacing in front of them, pencil between her teeth, mumbling to herself. It was curiously distracting.

 

The second thing. The so-called 'strike team'. Taylor had tried to come up with a better way to put and utterly, totally failed. 'Exploration team' implied that there wouldn't be any fighting, and that was...misleading...to say the least. Anything involving the word 'squad' was discarded immediately. So. Strike team. For reasons of mobility, and not wanting to stand out like a pack of goobers, they were limited to three. Well, _two_. Taylor was going, and that was that. So now she had to work out who would be going with her. Reaper seemed to be an obvious choice. She knew he was capable in combat, and he had previous experience with whatever was down there. Which put him over everyone else in the base. Negatives; he was almost certainly insane, and...he was creepy. It wasn't fair, but she couldn't avoid wanting to avoid him. Still. He was in. If for no other reason than she'd be suicidal not to.

 

So, that should be that solved. Except it wasn't, because she wanted a third. A nice, prime number. Problem was, there simply wasn't anyone available, and she wasn't willing to wait for the PRT to get their massive, bureaucratic wheels moving. She had no doubt that they _would_ , but it would take too damned long. Maybe someone from New Wave? No. They'd never met before, and establishing enough trust to be willing to follow her would take too long. Or might not happen at all. Foil was out, Lisa was out, the BBPD was definitely out.

 

So. Two.

 

She could work with that.

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

It was go time. Zero hour. Any other phrase she'd cribbed from war and police cinema. She had her knife strapped to one thigh. On the other she bore a holster, within which was a Colt Python. A comically large pistol, but the one that felt... _rightest_...in her hand. Its weight, its heft, the power of it. It just fit. Bullets, each as long and as thick as her pinkie, were in various pouches on her vest. Her bow curled and flickered down the length of her arm, voidlight dancing just beneath her skin. She was in her costume, which she was now starting to think of as armor, and sitting in the back of that stolen van as Reaper drove it to the Harper building. In her ear, snug and secure and carrying Lisa's voice to her, was an earpiece. She was ready.

 

Reaper's voice, as flat and calm as ever, drifted back to her. “Worry not, Guardian. This is what we do. We find the monsters that dwell in the dark, and we _kill them_.”

 

=+= Chapter 27: Pattern Recognition =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the fight with Swamp Thing, I'm giving this event its own chapter(s).
> 
> And apart from that, I've really got nothing to add. Please, continue to enjoy this story. Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are welcome but not mandatory.


	28. Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get real.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 28: Into the Dark**

 

The first thing she noticed was the smell. It either was, or at some point intersected with, a sewer, because the sweet-rot-and-faint-chlorine of raw sewage was incredibly strong. Almost overwhelming, and it was the 'almost' that kept Taylor inhaling deeply. Drawing lungful after lungful of rank, disgusting air in an attempt to separate and identify this new scent, this 'almost'. It churned her gut, nausea curling and bubbling and threatening to erupt, yet she kept at it. Because of a smell she'd never encountered before. A smell that horrified that deep, instinctual part of her where the Hunter held sway. She was in the lead, because she could all but see in the dark. Reaper paced behind her, silent save for the swish of his coat and the odd sound of moving from shadow to shadow. Lisa was in her ear, guiding them turn-by-turn as they made their way back to the place where Reaper was first attacked.

 

Not by coincidence, the 'almost' scent was growing stronger.

 

In her hands she carried a rifle, a semi-automatic she'd taken with her almost as an afterthought. It was solid, steady like her knife and the pistol. Grounding in a way she'd think about later. For now, though, for now she pre-empted Lisa's direction at the most recent T-section by following her nose.

 

“ _I can hear you breathing like that._ ” Lisa's voice was an exhibit of forced calm. “ _You picked a scent out of all that?_ ” 

 

“Yes.” Taylor kept her voice to barest of whispers. Just loud enough for the earpiece to pick up. It still felt too loud, hissing and rebounding off the brick and concrete walls. “Unique. Completely.”

 

“ _Something completely new? That's...probably bad._ ” A pause. “ _Next left, then about seventy feet of straight until the next intersection._ ”

 

Taylor grunted understanding and affirmation. Her nose confirmed the directions she'd just received, and as she went deeper into the tunnels she saw more and more signs of life. Planks of wood wedged into cracks in the wall, bearing signs of bearing weight. Benches, beds, chairs? Ratty, dirty clothes were piled or folded on places that just happened to be dry or were made so by lengths of plastic tarp pinned to leaky ceilings. Discarded wrappers, empty pots, an old camper stove. People had lived here, and now they did not.

 

=+= Chapter 28: Into the Dark =+=

 

Reaper's voice came to her from shadows, a whisper rasping and bouncing from dark, curving walls. He hadn't fully appeared since they entered the tunnels, preferring to show only an arm to point the way, or the rippling corner of a coat. “ _This is where it happened. Blood was shed here._ My _blood._ ”

 

She didn't need him to say that. She knew. Blood and the smell of monster, and something like the air after a lightning strike but not. Her grip on the rifle tightened, fingers flexing against the reassuring solidity of steel. Each step she took was chosen with care, finding places clean of any debris to step silently. They were in a cistern, a sphere of a room with drains leading into a pit of standing, stagnant water. The walkway, corroded iron railing separating it from the pit, was a circle around the perimeter and broken only by the channels bringing rain and sewer water. The railing was broken, jagged edges stained not quite red but not quite black. A mix, she guessed, of Reaper's blood and that of the monster they pursued.

 

There was very little light, but for her eyes 'very little' was more than enough. Taylor walked the circle, rifle at the ready, eyes measuring and assessing and started to put together what _might_ have happened.

 

The monster had been in the pit. Reaper had entered through the tunnel they just had, and surprised it. It attacked, breaking the rail and striking him for the first time. Reaper struck back, then jumped through shadows behind it. The monster had been ready, _waiting_ , turning and hitting him again. This time, it didn't break the railing. An inch wide groove was carved into the brick wall. The fact that the railing was only broken once, and that the groove was clean and straight suggested to her that this thing, whatever it was, had a weapon. What's more, knew how to use it. Intelligent, then. Smart enough to learn, then to anticipate.

 

That wasn't good.

 

This second attack had been serious enough to convince Reaper to flee, and he had, staying inside shadow all the to the bank, where he found her.

 

The rest was history. Taylor relayed what she'd come up with to Lisa, who replied that it was as good a theory as any, and was supported by what they knew. Close enough to work with, basically.

 

The tunnel they'd come through was one of five, and the scent was strongest in the one to Taylor's right. “Tails. We're on its trail. Tunnel to the southeast of entry point.”

 

A small pause. Then, “ _Got you. Carry on._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 28: Into the Dark =+=

 

She heard them first.

 

_Scrape, scrape, scrape_ . 

 

Something pointed, yet dull, being pitted against cement. It echoed so many times it was impossible to tell the exact number and source. The best she could do was direction. A four way juncture had her pointing to the right, Reaper flowing around her as a amorphous mass of shadow. He solidified in front of her, sword in hand. She pressed the butt of the rifle more firmly into her shoulder. “Reaper.” Her words hissed out in a whisper, the need for quiet now more than ever pressing down on her. “Stay left. I don't want to shoot you on accident.”

 

He didn't respond in word, but in action, shifting to turn her field of fire from a sliver of open tunnel to most of it. They continued on.

 

_Scrape, scrape, scrape_ . 

 

They passed into tunnels not on any schematic with little fanfare. Lisa could hear the scraping, and told Taylor what she could. “ _They're digging. Expanding. Network? No, something...organic. House? Home?_ Hive _. They're digging a hive. They're digging a_ fucking  _hive!_ ” 

 

_Scrape, scrape, scr –_

 

Taylor hissed into the microphone, certain that in riding the wave of deductions Lisa had forgotten to stay quiet, but it was too late. A howling came from the black tunnels up ahead, a sound unlike anything she had ever heard. Guttural, deep in tone and gratingly high. A roaring bear and a screeching bat and something straight from hell. The flashlight attached to the rifle, to this point unused, was flicked on. Her heart had jumped a beat, and it raced in her chest. There was a curious lightness in her gut, and her fingers flexed on the rifle.

 

The scraping was gone, and in its place, silence. She knew  _something_ was coming. 

 

It wasn't fear. She wasn't afraid.

 

No.

 

She was  _excited_ .

 

The cone of light ended ten feet away, and just beyond it pricks of green light began to appear, four at a time.

 

Taylor bared her teeth. And the world exploded.

 

=+= Chapter 28: Into the Dark =+=

 

Taylor fired so fast it sounded like one, continuous shot. Five... _things_...leaped from the dark. Their skin was pale and gray, like chalky ash, and their limbs were thin and stretched, reaching and slashing with long, tapering fingers. Five of them died, their fanged maws destroyed by her bullets. Their upper bodies were stopped, lower bodies jerking forward as they fell to the ground in a jittering pile that was crushed by the ones that followed. Heedless of the demise of their fellows, they hurled themselves at her and at Reaper. They died, either from her gun or Reaper's sword, they died and more came. More pinpricks of green witchlight. More of the howling. Just...more.

 

The magazine dropped, clattering to the ground. She loaded a fresh one with the speed and accuracy of a practiced soldier and kept firing. The rifle roared and thundered and she expected to be deaf and blind and found she was neither. A wall was building of the things they'd killed, a wall she was content to build and use as breakwater. Reaper was not. He dropped into shadow on 'their' side, and reappeared beyond it, on the very of the light's range. His sword flashed and flickered, the sodden chop-and-slice of a sharp blade through flesh paired with his sudden, _joyous_ laughter to create a hellish backdrop to her gunfire. He killed, and the air became thick with a sharp version of the monsters' scent as black tar-blood splashed everywhere.

 

A spray of it slapped across her chest. She felt its heat, saw the steam rise, and snarled in furious revulsion. Reaper spun away into shadow, diving deeper into the throng and further away from the relative safety of their wall. “Reaper! Reaper, get _back_ here!” She was screaming, feeling the scrape of it on her throat. Three monsters vaulted their dead kin, two of them went down to bullets but the third had used their falling bodies to obscure its charge. It leaped for her, arms flailing, and she had to drop the rifle to catch it around the wrists. The gun fell, swinging on its sling wildly at the thing's impact drove her back. She dug her feet in, trying to halt her backwards slide, but the ground was too slick and the push was strong. Those spindly arms held more strength than it seemed.

 

The cone of light danced wildly as she wrestled to keep her footing. It passed over the ceiling, the walls, the floor, the gaping, grasping teeth of her opponent and the thick saliva that dripped from its too-wide mouth. She screamed back as it howled in her face, and shortly after felt her back slam into the cistern railing. The impact caused the metal to bend, bolts were tearing free of their concrete housing as the creature started to push her backwards over the railing. She had little time, but more importantly, she had _leverage_. Enough to get this thing out of her face. She planted her feet, tightened her grip, and hip-threw the asshole over the railing and into the water. With luck, it would drown. Without, she could shoot it when it tried to climb back out. Either way, she got the seconds she needed to get the rifle back in her hands. At which point, she turned to see if Reaper was still alive.

 

By the sound of it, he was, and he was having the time of his lunatic life. Wonderful. She picked off a pair who'd managed to get past him, heard a splash behind her and threw herself forward and around to kill the monster as it poked its head over the railing. She reloaded, and started back to the breakwater.

 

=+= Chapter 28: Into the Dark =+=

 

She had switched magazines again, loading her last full one, when the pressure began to lessen. The foremost ash-chalk monsters still attacked, and still died, but they were not immediately replaced. There was a gap now, a space of seconds where once before there was none. Reaper had _finally_ listened to her, coming back to the close side of the wall to cover her left, and was dispatching them with quick jab and cuts to the face and neck as they appeared. She just shot them, counting down her remaining bullets as she did. All the while, the gap increased.

 

Eighteen bullets left. Six second gap.

 

Reaper got bored, or forgot, or whatever, and disappeared into the melee. She heard the butcher shop sound of him killing and his mad laughter. Going to grind her teeth and finding her jaw to be already clenched tight. They were going to have words when this was done. Strong ones.

 

Thirteen left. Ten seconds.

 

A howling echoed up from behind the monsters. Another unique sound, unlike the battle cries of their current foes. To call it a 'howl' was something of a misnomer, in fact. It was more a rumbling, a roaring, a deep horn and massive drum and the falling of a boulder. It was the sort of sound that was felt as well as heard. Feel it she did, right in the hollow of her chest.

 

Everything stopped. The monsters stopped fighting, stopped howling, they just...went still. Reaper had dropped his sword, his hands were twitching and his fingers flickering. “I know that sound.” His voice was ragged, tight. “I know you, _beast_. I am coming for you!”

 

“Reaper, wai – stop!”

 

But it was too late, shadows had gathered around him and his dropped blade, and without another word, he was gone. She stared for a moment before giving herself a mental dope-slap. Now was really not the time, after all. There were still about two dozen of those monsters just standing there. Standing there, and staring. Not necessarily _at_ her, but they weren't really looking at anything else. For a moment, she didn't even breathe. Then the moment was over. She took aim and prepared to fight once more. It wasn't needed. As a group, as a _swarm_ , the monsters turned and ran deeper into the tunnels.

 

Lisa. She should probably talk to Lisa. “Hey, Tails.”

 

“ _T – Guardian! What is – are you – is – what just happened?! Also, why are you calling me by name?_ ”

 

Taylor wasn't short of breath, but each deep inhale sent fresh energy flowing through her. “We just got attacked.”

 

“ _Well, we_ heard _that. What's happening now, why is it all quiet?_ ”

 

“They ran. There was this big, like, roaring sound and Reaper _lost_ it. Took off down the tunnel, and they went after him a few seconds ago.”

 

There was muffled cursing in the background. It sounded somewhat like her dad. “ _They could be chasing him. But no, it's not likely. Take a closer look at one of 'em. The more intact ones. Tell me what you see._ ”

 

Brows rose up. “Is now really the best time?”

 

“ _Well, seeing as I've got the PRT patched in, yes._ ”

 

Taylor sighed. “Fine.” She booted one of Reaper's kills off the pile and flipped it over. She crouched by it and tried not to vomit from the stench of it clogging her nose. Talking through the monster took only a few minutes, thanks to Lisa's near-perfect memory and her own concise language. When she was finished, a moment of silence followed, and then a much older woman's voice took over the channel.

 

“ _Guardian, this is Director Piggot. You've already done incredibly well, and this is immensely helpful for the other cities, but there's more that needs to be done here. We need you to –_ ”

 

“Wait.” Taylor just interrupted an incredibly powerful person, but her manners were somewhat lacking right now. “What's this about other cities?”

 

Lisa came back. “ _I was going to tell you before you got attacked. As far as we can tell, there's at least six other cities who have disappearances exactly like the ones here. On top of that, tunnel networks are being found that don't correspond to any construction plans or utilities. So whatever's going on, it's not just the Bay. It's..it's everywhere._ ”

 

There was really only thing to say. “Fuck.”

 

“ _There's more, I'm afraid_.” The amount of hate in the Director's voice was chilling, even if Taylor was pretty sure it wasn't directed at her. _“The same tunnel systems were found branching out under the containment walls in Ellisburg. We may not know what this is, but we do have its source. As of ten minutes ago the United States government, in conjunction with the Protectorate, have declared war on Jamie Rinke. The parahuman known as Nilbog._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 28: Into the Dark =+=

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT. HAS. BEGUN. 
> 
> The meat of this story. I can't wait. 
> 
> I hope you guys are as excited as I am. If you're not, pretend. Plz.


	29. Salvo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark tunnels beneath Brockton Bay, there dwells a monster who makes monsters of men.
> 
> Taylor aims to kill it.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 29: Salvo**

 

She stalked forward and found signs of Reaper's progress. A fallen monster, a spray of black ichor, gouges in the wall cut by a madman's sword. As she passed deeper the darkness began to... _undulate_...for lack of a better term. Just on the edges of her vision, as if it were both intrigued and frightened by her presence. Which was impossible, and also insane to boot. Darkness didn't move, and it was certainly not capable of curiosity. _I have been down here for too long_ , she thought, _to think shit like this_. Still, as she progressed she couldn't shake the notion that she was onto something. It was all so surreal; the creatures down here, the tunnel network that wasn't supposed to exist, the sounds, the smells, that odd green glow that –

 

Wait a minute. She stopped in her tracks, boots gumming and sticking in a puddle of sticky, black, monster blood. Telling herself not to think about it, she looked to the steep gradient on her right. It was a sharp enough drop that she could slide down if it were slick enough. After about fifteen feet it leveled out and made a sharp turn to the left. Around that corner came that old-bruise green glow. She couldn't see signs of Reaper down that tunnel, they continued forward, in fact, but something...something about that glow told her she should go that way. It wasn't that she liked its look, or anything, because she did not. No, it was more like the idea that finding the source of that glow would also lead to her finding the beast they'd come down here for.

 

“Tails.” She kept her voice quiet and hoped Lisa would remember to do the same. The hearing of these things was off the charts and she really did not need another fight. She kind of wanted one, but that wasn't nearly the same thing. “There's some light down here. Pretty sure it's a sign of the...” What was the word to use here? “infestation. Can you let Director Piggot know?”

 

“ _She heard_.” Thankfully, Lisa was as quiet as Taylor. Learning through experience, and all that. “ _Any sign of Reaper?_ ”

 

“No, and I'm not sure there will be.” She started down the slope, making sure to keep the gun barrel ahead of her feet. “I'm going towards it. You'll know if I found it.”

 

Lisa sighed. “ _Of course you are, and of course I will. Gunfire, hellish screams. Can't wait. Okay, Guardian. Go get 'em._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 29: Salvo =+=

 

Crystals. Crystals, as designed by someone who had never heard of them and was an obsessive H.R. Giger fan. Pale, bony protrusions from molasses-dark constructs stuck to walls and ceilings. Splashed haphazardly around the place as if spat there. The light they emitted was the green light she had seen, despite the fact they were as pale as the bone they resembled. They looked vaguely slimy, as if the interior of their housing was some wet egg. Some part of her, the part that made you stop and stare at car accidents, wondered if they were warm to the touch. That part of her would be forever unsatisfied because there was no way in hell she was touching them.

 

 _I should check my gear while I can_.

 

She may not get another chance to do so.

 

So she ran down the list. Knife: secure and ready. Almost eager. Bow: ditto. Pistol: riding heavy on her thigh. Half-dozen speed loaders in various vest and pants pockets. Rifle: Dirty, dinged, covered in sweat and gunpowder residue. Still usable. Three magazines left. After that, she only had herself. It would have to be enough.

 

A flickering in the depths of a long shadow. Orbs of green fire leering at her. She reacted, moving faster than she'd thought possible. The rifle came up and fired before the sound of the shot registered in her ears. A growing violet glow winked out. _Something_ flopped wetly out in the crystals' revealing light.

 

Another new form. Not the ashen-chalk screamer, but rather more...boxy. Bulky. Still humanoid. It also had a face. A grinning, gaping, three-eyed skull set in a near pyramidal shape of pebbled, dark orange hide. The rest of it was waxy bone where it was not plated by more hide. The end of one arm looked like a hand had swollen, melted, and run together into a vaguely cylindrical blob. There was a hole in the end, a scorched depression that reminded her of the rifle's barrel. Had this new form had enough intelligence to use a weapon, only to have that weapon explode? It was possible, but Taylor couldn't think of a weapon whose self-destruction would cause a hand to melt in such a way.

 

Maybe it was jumping to conclusions, but she was fairly certain that it was intended to be that way. So..some kind of in-built weapon? It made sense. Keep the more advanced forms closer to the center of the...what had Lisa called it? A hive?...to keep whatever was in there safe. She paused, dropping into an alcove to stay as hidden as possible, and passed on her thoughts to Lisa who, in turn, passed them on to Director Piggot. Who took a moment to respond.

 

“ _Guardian, I have no authority to command you but I'm_ heavily _suggesting that you get out of there and wait for reinforcements. If this creation of Nilbog is capable of creating such an advanced repurposing of a human body, there's no telling what you'll find._ ”

 

“I can't leave.”

 

“ _Guardian –_ ”

 

“If I leave, these things are gonna follow me,” she spoke with quiet certainty, knowing in her gut that she was right. “and if they get out of these tunnels, they'll vanish. We'll get them eventually, but how many people would die in the meantime?”

 

“ _You're risking your life on this supposition._ ”

 

“I know, Director. But I'm not wrong. If I leave now, this whole things gets so much worse.”

 

Director Piggot's voice filled with something like resignation. “ _I can't stay on the line any longer, I have to coordinate your reinforcements, but Guardian? Don't die. Piggot out._ ”

=+= Chapter 29: Salvo =+=

 

The tunnel opened up ahead. A vast, pulsing cluster of bone-pale crystals hung from the ceiling, illuminating a massive, flat cavern. The walls and ceiling were scraped smooth, claw scrapes marking that it had been dug, but they were so much larger than the ones on the tunnels. Something else had dug this room. Something... _bigger_. The floor was a landscape of hills and valleys, no deeper or higher than her ankles. She knew there was nothing in them, the overhead light made for little shadows to be found. She avoided them anyway and chose each step with care. Seven tunnels branched off from this place, counting the one she came from. Something flickered in the center, flashing its reflection, and she made her way toward it.

 

What was it?

 

It was in the middle. Almost _exactly_ in the middle. It seemed strangely inorganic for something dropped.

 

But not, Taylor supposed, for something _placed_.

 

Something like bait.

 

Howling exploded from the tunnels, such a thunderous cacophony to have an almost physical impact. A wall of infernal noise crashing into Taylor's chest. She dropped into a crouch, bringing her rifle up, and turned on her heel. She didn't jerk her aim from tunnel to tunnel, no. Her circuit was smooth and fast. She trusted her balance and it did not fail her. She cleared four tunnels before the screamers – as she had named the pale monsters – flooded out of six of the seven tunnels. Dozens of them, all but tumbling over each other in their haste to reach her and tear her to pieces. It wasn't a mindless charge, they were spreading out, trying to cut off any chance she had of escape. The difference in behavior startled her, but not enough to prevent her from turning on her heel and sprinting for the tunnel she'd come from.

 

Why? Simple. In an open room, they'd surround and bring her down. Their overwhelming numbers would work in their favor. Since she had a vested interest in being alive and _killing these motherfuckers_ , that was unacceptable. So she would change the place of the fight, force them to condense, to limit to the amount that could attack her at any one time. To make their numbers work in _her_ favor. She dropped into a slide as she reached the tunnel mouth, stopping and turning in a crouch to deliver her first salvo. The rifle bellowed a sulfurous war-cry and screamers started dying. There were so many, though, so incredibly many, that the ones behind merely trampled the dead and dying and pushed onward.

 

So she fired faster, as fast as the gun's mechanics would allow. In two seconds the screamers had covered half of the distance between her and them and she'd emptied the magazine. Loading a fresh one cost her another third of space. She cursed herself for being slow even as she knew she couldn't have done that any faster and began shooting again, aiming for knees and spines, hoping to bog the horde down and give herself more time. It didn't work, and it wasn't until she saw flashes of purple light that she realized why.

 

There were more than screamers in the cavern. The one-arms were behind them, impelling them forward. Were the screamers encouraged by the presence, or frightened by it? Did it matter? They came on. Taylor emptied the magazine as fast as she could. The distance was closing. She wouldn't have enough time to load her last one.

 

The rifle's chamber locked open. Empty. The screamer horde was less than twenty feet away. She dropped the gun and reached out an empty hand. Voidlight flooded through her arm, her bow forming a violet crescent in her palm. It had slowed Swamp Thing. She drew an arrow from the void, leaped backwards, set it to string, and fired in midair.

 

As she landed, her bow winked out. Her knife and pistol were in hand. The blade flickered, a blue spark traveling the length of its edge before igniting with a _crack-boom_ of lightning. At the same time, the hammer went back on her pistol, the heavy, heated potential of it in her hand. The fury of a sun, waiting to be unleashed.

 

Taylor bared her teeth. And charged.

 

=+= Chapter 29: Salvo =+=

 

They never stood a chance. With blade and bullet Taylor carved the charging screamers into a drifting nebula of ash. The cavern's pale light glinted of the individual motes, contrasting with splashes of violet fire washing over and scorching the stone walls. She didn't stop moving, dropping into a slide underneath a volley before the ball of her foot caught the lip of a valley in the floor. Capitalizing on the change in her momentum, she tumbled head over heels to her feet and shot two of the screamers in the topmost of their triangle of eyes. As she ran on an arc of empty brass shells flew out in her wake. She slammed a speed loader in and flicked the wheel back into place. The far end of the cavern loomed and she ran a quartet of steps up it. At the very last step, with only the tips of her toes still touching the stone, she flipped over backwards.

 

Upside down, she saw the shooters re position themselves, spreading out in yet another display of disturbing intelligence. Their arms began to glow and pores along the side began to vent purple-tinted steam. She continued her flip, landing in a crouch as plasma flashed over her head, scorching the rock to a wavering red. She turned and threw herself forward, rising into a sprint as she emptied her pistol taking out another six.

 

Twelve remained. Eight of them had just shot at her, and it would take them a few seconds to get another shot ready. Which meant she had four shots to dodge in the distance remaining. Any one of which could turn her to a smoking wreck.

 

If they hit her.

 

They wouldn't.

 

Quickstep forward and to the left, a low-altitude leap that carried her forward.

 

Pirouette to the right. The shot singed the ends of her cloak and roused a fresh burst of anger at the sight.

 

The third shot missed. No effort required.

 

That fourth shot...that one caught her by surprise. Why? It _anticipated_ her movement, aiming not where she was, but where she was going to be. The fire hit her right arm, washing its lethal heat over her. She dropped, throwing herself to the ground and waiting for the crippling sizzle of pain to wash over her. It didn't. Somehow, a burst of plasma hot enough to melt rock had hit her costume and done nothing.

 

While her brain was occupied with thoughts of _what the fuck_ her body had not forgotten she was fighting for her life and rolled to her feet. Within arms reach of the remaining shooters. Her knife flashed. Her pistol clubbed. She danced, and they died.

 

Then it was done. Silence fell in the cavern. Taylor breathed in, held it, and let it out.

 

=+= Chapter 29: Salvo =+=

 

Her pistol was dirty. Pieces of gray flesh and orange hide were glued to the metal by the taffy-sticky black ichor these monsters used as blood. The entire thing was gummed to the point of uselessness, and she had no way of cleaning it. Frustration mounted as she went back to where she'd dropped the rifle, thinking at least _it_ might be useful. She found it rather farther back than she remembered leaving it. By contrast, it was clean. Dinged, with scrapes along it from where it had been kicked around, but usable. Her pistol went back into its holster, and she slid the last magazine into the rifle. At that point she remembered what had allowed her to be ambushed in the first place. Or rather, what had drawn her into the ambush; that little shiny whatever.

 

So she went looking for it, combing the cavern floor for a hint of where it had ended up after the fight. It took a bit, but she found it hidden beneath the lip of a small cave scooped into the floor. A necklace, chain snapped as if violently torn from its wearer. It looked like silver, but the wear on the parts that rubbed together had revealed a darker, probably-not metal beneath. There was a medallion still on the chain, about the size of a half-dollar coin. More faux-silver, with knot-work engraving along the outer edge. In the middle, an inscription:

 

_For Susan_

 

_From Aaron_

 

There was more, a note or a dedication, but time and friction had smoothed it to illegibility. She found a seam with the tips of her fingers, and a delicate hinge not long after. Which meant it wasn't a necklace, but a locket. Inside were, presumably, pictures. Maybe of a smiling couple, maybe of Susan and her dog, or maybe of a mother and her son. She ran the pad of her index finger over the button, weighing the decision to open it. The odds were good that, whoever was in there had been turned into a monster and had just tried to kill her. Susan or Aaron, they were long gone, and all seeing their faces would do was bring her pain and the lingering notion that she had not only failed to protect them in the first place but then killed the creatures they'd become.

 

 _Make a decision_ , she told herself, _every second you wait is a chance for another attack._ A minute passed, and then two. Taylor rose from her couch and slid the locket into one of her vest pouches. Later, she promised. She lifted the rifle again, sniffed deeply at the stale, cool air, and followed the stench.

 

=+= Chapter 29: Salvo =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a chapter. It is shaped like one, smells like one and, with the proper ingredients and careful preparation, can be consumed like one. Always be mindful of potential side effects and consult a doctor if you feel yourself wondering if today was yesterday or hearing the color fudge. 
> 
> ...anyway. 
> 
> Hope you guys like the chapter. Next one should bring our heroine face-to-face with the beast below.


	30. Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor travels the darkened tunnels beneath her city, seeking, searching. She finds what she's looking for.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 30: Strike**

 

She was getting closer. She knew it.

 

For one, it was getting warmer. Until this point, the tunnels had been cool, almost cold. Now a wet heat suffused the air. The crowded-elevator warmth generated by an abundance of living things. If that alone wasn't enough, she could _hear_ them. The padding rumble of dozens of footsteps. Walking quietly worked, but there was only so much that could be done to hide a large number, and it was clear to her that this close to the – the source of the infestation they weren't even trying to hide. And, perhaps worst of all, she could smell them. She had thought the stench had been bad before, up by the surface or the cistern where Reaper had abandoned her to hare off to who-knows-where. 

 

No.

 

It had been perfume, up there. This was so much worse. Because now it had the stench of death and decay and good old fashioned  _rot_ on top of everything else. “Tails,” she murmured, so quietly it almost didn't count as vocalizing. “I'm getting close to the center.”

 

No response.

 

“Tails? Do you hear me?”

 

Nothing. Maybe they were out of range?

 

No. That was ridiculous. These were Tinker made, PRT standard issue radio earbuds. They didn't  _have_ an 'out of range'. She could talk to Lisa from Antarctica as clear as day with no problems, so there was  _no reason_ that Taylor should lose contact. Yet she had. It was impossible, but here she was.

 

Know what? Fuck it.

 

Taylor dropped all efforts at stealth.

 

“Tails, I'm going to assume you can hear me, but can't respond. As of...whatever time it is, I'm within distance of the center of the infection. Still no sign of Reaper, or the missing people. Unless of course, the monsters _are_ the missing people, but I'm not thinking about that right now. Also, for the record: It seems like the closer you get to the center, the more – the more intelligent or – or sophisticated the monsters become. They can set traps, plan ambushes, and understand the idea of friendly fire. They don't care, but they know what it is. Um. What else? Fuck, I'm stalling. All right. Guardian out.” 

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

This one was bigger than the others.

 

Where the screamers were slightly shorter than her, and the shooters around her height, this one _towered_ over her. Easily ten feet tall. Thick muscle bulged like cancerous growths, covered by raw, glistening red flesh. Its head was massive, resembling a shooter's, only with two eyes and many more teeth. One of its arms ended in what looked like a sword, a length of sharp looking bone protruding from a stumpy wrist. The other had three thick, gnarled talons. It possessed a basso, bellowing war cry that was identical to what had sent Reaper off earlier. Its sword-arm had the right shape for the cut in the cistern walls and, if memory served, matched at least one of Reaper's wounds. An unsettling point of familiarity.

 

It also resisted bullets remarkably well, for something that looked like its skin was exposed. She'd expected to be able to empty a whole magazine from the rifle into it before it reached her, yet was surprised once more by the sheer amount of speed it was capable of. Instead, she only managed half before the thing was upon her, its bone blade humming through the air and trying its damnedest to take her head off. She ducked, pushing to one side and slamming her shoulder into the tunnel wall. The rifle snapped up and she put two bullets in the joint where the blade met the rest of the arm. It swung again, spraying sparks as it cut a groove down the rock.

 

Taylor rolled, avoiding the blow that would have split her down the middle. Then, from her crouch, shot him in the ankle. Unlike with the joint, this showed results. The high powered bullets tore through the comparatively fragile joint with explosive force, almost severing its foot and sending the thing stumbling. As it fell it lashed out, the flat wall of the blade catching her off guard and just below her shoulder, in turn.

 

Pain flared, hot and dull, as she went flying down the tunnel from the force of the blow. She spun as she hit the ground, the rifle barrel catching and wrenching her grip in _exactly_ the wrong way. With a horrifyingly loud _snap_ , Taylor broke her wrist. The pain from the thing's blow vanished entirely, washed away by this new agony. She heard the wet, thumping slide of the thing making its way towards her, and knew she could not lie there and cry. No matter how much she wanted to.

 

She abandoned the rifle. Rolled onto her back and reached across herself to draw her pistol with her free hand. She remembered, as the thing lumbered towards her, that it had been gummed up by the blood of the shooters she'd killed before. She could go for her knife, but right then she wasn't willing to close with the thing if she could help it. So instead she took her pain, her fear, and her rage and she called upon her Light.

 

It came.

 

Fire spiraled down her arm, reaching her pistol and scouring it. But it didn't stop there. No, her Light then _suffused_ the gun, made it _more._ She saw that there was one bullet in the wheel. Don't miss, she told herself.

 

She pulled the trigger. Sunfire roared across the distance, a thin lance of celestial fury.

 

Slowly, agonizingly, the monster's headless body toppled. Crumbled to the ground, first falling to its knees, then slumping backwards to pool its foul smelling blood on the ground behind it. Panting, Taylor let her arm drop. Then she groaned her way back to her feet, fumbled another loader into the pistol, kicked the rifle spitefully, and headed onward.

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

She could hear a heartbeat. A heart that, from the volume of it, was the size of a school bus.

 

_Th – thump,_ went the heart. 

 

She dropped into a shadowed alcove and became still as what could only be described as a  _patrol_ passed her. A quartet of screamers, followed by two shooters, and one big guy behind them all. Its thick head swiveled on its neck, searching for...well, her, probably. With luck, they wouldn't find her. Their hearing was acute, beyond anything Taylor could fathom. But she was quiet and still, and their sense of smell did not seem to be as good. So they  _should_ pass her by. If not, she could always kill them. She was hurt, she wasn't crippled. 

 

They passed, and she waited until the sound of the heart drowned out the sound of their feet before moving on. The noise, the increased intelligence of the monsters, and the increasing presence of the crystals all told her she was heading in the right direction. On top of those things, there was something coating the walls. A strange, silver substance, smooth to the eye and – presumably – to the touch. Again, there was no way in hell she was touching that.

 

_Th – thump,_ went the heart. 

 

She moved on, following a winding tunnel that sloped gently downward, through turns left and right and a smaller cavern. As she kept descending she couldn't shake the image of a vast, underground lake beneath her feet. Silent and still, black water teeming with the unknown. There was no telling how far beneath her it was. Funny thing was, _that_ unnerved her more than the monsters that had made and inhabited these tunnels.

 

She came to a corridor, for it was too well made to be anything but. For the first time since the cistern, the floor was even. Not smooth, necessarily, but flat. The walls, too, were more...designed, less of a rough curve and more...angular.

 

Constructed. That was the word. This corridor, and the bright, light-obscured opening at its end, had been _built_. The difference between this and the tunnels she'd come through was jarring, to put it lightly. _Th – thump_ , went the heart, and the sheer sound rumbled through the particulate-filled air. She could feel it in her bones. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to pierce the veil the shining light created and was partially successful. Enough to see a vast, pulsing shape and the bare hint of something more. A faster movement. The pale light cast an arc on the ground, making the rock look like bone. Taylor twitched the fingers of her broken wrist, testing it, probing it like a recently lost tooth.

 

Test result: don't do that. The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was close enough. She cradled that hand to her belly, anticipating a great deal of movement soon and not wishing to smack it on anything. She checked her pistol, making sure it was loaded and the mechanisms were clean, or at least clear. She took a deep, slow breath. Then she took another.

 

_Ready?_

 

_I feel ready_ . 

 

She walked into the light and finally,  _finally_ saw the source of everything. 

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

It brought to mind the bud of a flower. That, and a bunch of other things. Where it touched the ground was a thick, slimy pad of some pebbled bruise-green flesh. Spaced haphazardly along the side were pustules the color of rotted milk. They... _moved_...bulging and rippling as if they held something inside of them. Above them was a belt of spines, somewhere between a porcupine's and those of a rose. They glistened, secreting some vile fluid that hissed and bubbled when it dripped to the stone floor, plumes of bilious steam billowing and turning the bottom six inches of the cavern into a fog bank. Walls of some green-black substance folded over each other, rising up at least twenty feet to taper to a thick circle brushing the thirty foot ceiling.

 

To say nothing of the smell. Taylor could not find a set of words to describe it. Not. One. Her horror at the _stench_ was overridden by the sound of something tearing. Something thick and wet. Horror, and the contents of her stomach, rose as one of the pustules ruptured. Split from within by a thin, familiar length of bone-pale material. Fluid poured from the breach, carrying with it a spindly ball of a figure. As it was, covered in some thick, viscous substance, she nearly didn't recognize it as a screamer. _Well_ , she thought with a sick kind of satisfaction, _now we know how they're made_. She wanted to throw up. It burned in her throat, demanding she open her mouth.

 

Instead, she drew her pistol, aimed, and shot the newborn screamer in the head. The sound, the sharp bellow of a gun firing echoing around the rounded walls. It was followed by a bellow, coming from _within_ the folded walls. Solar flame whirled down her arm into her pistol as the massive, fleshy petals began to fall, dropping like the curtains revealing the next act in some great play.

 

The falling petals revealed an Endbringer.

 

Twenty-five feet tall, hunchbacked. Its massive, pendulous head hung low. The mouth reminded of a shark, mixed with a lion by way of a lamprey. A drooling, gaping maw of rot-black teeth, broken and jagged. It had a pile of pink, weeping eyes just above that. Its shoulders, arms, and chest were were one continuous shape. At the end of each arm was a wide, three-taloned hand. Each talon was as long as her arm, curved, and shone in the light from the reflection of some fluid that coated each wicked arc of sharpened and shaped bone. Its legs were broadly set, and thick, with no knees she could see. A being, she surmised, of great power and vicious strength, but one that looked to lack agility. Which was troubling, given that every form she'd encountered to that point had no such weakness. It roared at her, this titan, spreading its arms wide and flexing its taloned hands.

 

Such thoughts were for later. Now was for action. She lifted her pistol and fired, imbuing each bullet with as much flaming Light as it could take. Three lances from the heart of the sun itself carved through the empty air between them. It was in this manner that she, Taylor, roared back.

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

Each bullet did a punishing amount of damage that didn't seem to affect the titan at all. The first hit in the upper shoulder, furrowing a line of scorched flesh the width and depth of a garbage can. The second hit it in the middle of the chest, drilled a foot-wide crater that simmered and sizzled, and then stopped. As the titan was turned by the impact of the first shot, the third one hit – it punched through everything to shatter an arm bone as thick as her torso, an action that sounded like a cannon firing. She hoped that meant the arm was rendered useless. If not, at least _diminished_. Keenly aware of the disparity between the power she could bring to bear and what it would take to kill this thing, she would take any boon she could get.

 

That said, she did have a plan. Her pistol went back into its holster, and the palm of her good hand began to flicker with violet light. The titan took a thundering, ground-shaking step forward. She paced it backwards, then to her left. It followed her, turning clumsily to keep her in front of it. Then it lowered its massive head, presenting a thick, bony ridge, and charged. Its arms were close enough to the ground that it could add to its speed by digging its hands into the ground and pushing itself forward. Great divots of shattered stone fountained out behind as the titan accelerated to an incredible speed, especially given the short distance. The cavern shook from its motion, and if she were hit, they would not find enough of her to bury.

 

She held her ground, waiting until the last moment not out of some sense of drama, but to prevent the titan from changing course. She tamped down her feet, her tensed leg muscles twitched, and she hurtled off to the side as the twenty-five foot monstrosity stampeded into the wall behind her. Her boots failed to gain any significant traction on the slime-coated floors. She slid across the stone, falling to a knee and leveraging a turnabout with a twist of her hips. Then she drew her bow, holding it perpendicular to herself and with a grimace, used her other hand to draw an arrow. Still sliding, she loosed an arrow and followed it quickly with another.

 

The titan hit the wall a few seconds before the arrows hit it. The sound and fury of the former impact entirely drowned out any noise the latter might have made. Tufts of stone fell from the ceiling, detonating in sprays of jagged shards as the arrows passed harmlessly through the titan to hook into the stone wall beyond it. Then half a dozen chains of voidlight, ended in barbed hooks, erupted from the points of impact and dug themselves into the monster's flesh. It bellowed, a sound of rage and pain, and attempted to pull itself free.

 

It would succeed, she knew, but not in time to avoid her blade. She scrambled to her feet, charging forward as she drew the lightning down the sharp edge of her steel. It _crackled_ into violent blue life and she ran. The knife rose, and she planned to take the titan's leg at the knee and then stay out of reach as it bled to death. If it could bleed to death. She reached her target, the heaving slab of muscle that smelled unbelievably foul, and slashed. Which was when the impossible happened.

 

Her knife _bounced_.

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

A keen, infuriated offense filled her. How _dare_ this, this pile of drool and lizardskin, be the first thing she'd ever encountered that resisted her blade? It was – it was an outrage! An impossibility! Instead of bouncing off like her momentum wanted her to, she doubled down on her efforts. Boots scrabbled for purchase, and she leaned more of her weight onto the blade. She screamed in pain as she wrapped her injured hand around the handle and sawed her burning knife into the titan's thick leg.

 

The hide split, a gash as long as her arm opening and revealing spoiled-meat colored muscle glistening in the open air. Thick tendons flexed and bulged as the titan tried to escape its voidlight bonds. She cut deeper, pushing the the knife further in and watching the muscle tense in response. It took her entire strength to cut through the muscle and the stringy, ropelike tendons but as the chains winked out of existence, she succeeded.

 

She tore free and away, moving to put distance between herself and the titan. One of the tendons she cut turned out to be a blood vessel of some kind because thick, clotted black ichor spewed into the air with the same thickness and intensity as a fire-hose. That leg, now no longer able to support the incredible weight above it, buckled. Its knee cracked a circle of spiderwebs into the stone floor and sent a miniature earthquake vibrating through the cavern. She stumbled, but kept her feet, turning back to see the titan doing the same. Its eyes had no pupils, nor lids to speak of, yet there was an emotion in them, and that emotion was hate.

 

It was a mutual sentiment.

 

Taylor took that hate and her fury and her desperate desire to not die and poured it into her Light. Her blade flared, the lightning obscuring the entire length of steel, progressing beyond it, turning her six inch knife into something of a machete made entirely of a storm's raging heart.

 

She had made the titan immobile, and so must go to it. She would have to overcome its defenses. Avoid its arms, and claws and gaping jaws. She wondered how thick its skull was. Thicker than her knife, probably. A moment's pause. Then she grinned. “I know how to kill you.” she told the titan. It roared back. A mutual sentiment.

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

A moment of stillness as Light spread throughout her. Then she blurred forward, jumping ten feet forward in a single stride. In the next she jumped up, letting the blur carry her towards the very top of the titan's head. As she did, she realized that momentum would take her _over_ the top of the titan's head. So she did something – digging her knife into the face of her enemy and letting it drag her to a stop, dangling from the titan's back. Blood sprayed from the vertical through its face as it trumpeted its pain. She grinned in satisfaction, twisting to plant her feet in the thick, pebbled flesh. As she did she felt the tip of her blade scrape against the titan's skull.

 

Muscle flexed beneath her feet, arms as thick as trees flailed in an attempt to dislodge her. The titan began to fall, taken off center by its own efforts and the impact of Taylor's charge. She growled and pushed the blade as far into the skull as she could before its lightning flickered out. Embedded to the hilt, she figured, would be good enough. Then she twisted, widening the hole as much as she could as the titan – thrown off balance by its own motions and surprise trepanation – began to fall. She rode it down, pulling her knife free and throwing it to the side as she leaped up.

 

Solar Light poured through her, followed by a wave of intense exhaustion. She'd been a Guardian for almost a year, and she'd _never_ drawn this much Light. Instinct told her that one way or the other, this would end soon. She reached across her waist for her pistol, the motion turning her leap into a spin. Momentum carried her through half a turn before she could aim.

 

Her target was the width of a quarter, sandwiched in a half-inch valley of jiggling, pulsing muscle and fatty tissue. She was tired and aching and fifteen feet in the air and, in case that wasn't enough, spinning like a top.

 

_Don't miss_ , she thought, as she closed an eye. 

 

She fired.

 

The titan's head jerked.

 

Fire billowed from the hole, followed by foul smoke.

 

She landed, legs flexing to absorb the impact. Her Light faded. She walked to the lying mass of the titan and stopped by its head. Rather like a lit jack-o-lantern, she could see fire flickering through the membranous eyes. The ones she hadn't ruptured or destroyed, anyway.

 

Taylor watched the titan's skull dissolve to ash and wondered how the hell she was going to destroy the nest. At that moment – that  _exact_ moment – her earpiece came back to life. 

 

“ _...following her trail. Gotta say, boss, I sure am glad she's on our side._ ” 

 

“ _Roger that, Velocity. Thermal scans have a bloom thirty yards east and down from your position. Intel says that's where she'll be. Dauntless, what's the word on Reaper?_ ” 

 

“ _...found him, sir._ ” 

 

“ _Dauntless?_ ” 

 

“ _...the parts they didn't like, anyway._ ” Followed by sounds of someone throwing up. 

 

Moments later, there was a man in a red spandex suit standing in the cavern with her. He gaped first at the cavern, then at her. He made a noise, best described as  _I don't – what the –_ in a single sound. 

 

Taylor waved tiredly. “Hey. You missed all the fun.”

 

=+= Chapter 30: Strike =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things. 
> 
> First, the keen eyed reader may note that I've put up a total number of chapters. This is because I wanted to and not because I think there's going to be sixty chapters. There might be, there might be less. Might be more. I don't really know. It's more a guideline, really. 
> 
> Second, your continued support does, in fact, mean very much to me. Comments, kudos, bookmarks, they all tell me that you are interested in this story and interested in seeing it continue. That, in turn, leads to me wanting to get off my duff and work. So...yeah. 
> 
> Thirdly, there is no third thing. 
> 
> And that's really it. See you next time!


	31. Mandatory Downtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the tyranny of the monsters in the dark below - at least for one city - is ended. And someone takes a shower. And gets a haircut.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime**

 

When Taylor emerged from the tunnels, Velocity and Dauntless close behind, it was to a city overseen by a setting sun. It was only then did she realize how utterly _filthy_ she was – covered from head to toe in sweat and dirt, grime and grit, blood and viscera and something she could only describe as 'pseudo amniotic fluid'. Her wrist throbbed with a dull, fading pain. Already healing. By tomorrow, her broken wrist would be nothing more than an echo of a sound. She wanted a shower, and to sleep for several days. That did not seem likely, however, based on what lay before her.

 

She would later learn that while she was in the tunnels a conclave of sorts had been called. Every super-powered faction in the city came together to discuss Nilbog's recent activity and concluded that it was near or equivalent to that of an Endbringer attack. Accordingly, a truce was declared, until it was done. What was in front of her was a display of that truce.

 

Kaiser had cut the entire block off in a quarantine of steel walls and curling spools of razor wire. Further, the building she'd just exited was encircled by a spiked wall that was just higher than her chest. He and all of the capes he could bring to bear were directly in front of her. It was a tactically sound decision, and a display of power at once. _We will form the front line_ , it stated, _because we have the numbers and the capability to withstand it_. The jagged crown of Kaiser's helm peered over his wall and his eyes settled momentarily on her. Whether he recognized her as the one who'd been assaulted by his men before or not, he briefly inclined his head. Recognition of the feat she'd just accomplished. Pompous asshole.

 

The left of the building's wall was held by Lung, and him alone. Another statement. _I am all that is needed. Hate me if you wish, but you will respect my strength_. Though that being said, Taylor could hear the shuffling footsteps of people behind him, so while he was certainly confident, whether or not he was arrogant was still in question. The seven foot man in a dragon mask did and said nothing as she emerged, but she still felt as if her measure had been taken by him.

 

On the right was a much more welcome sight. The PRT, Brockton Bay division, was there. All of them. Even the Wards, which was surprising, but not in a way that she would be thinking on too much. Assault stood next to his partner and rumored wife Battery and, when he saw the three of them, whistled loudly and waved. Miss Militia had a very large and intimidatingly sleek looking rifle propped on the wall and did not seem all that eager to use it, which was nice to see. Armsmaster and a scattering of costumes she didn't recognize were further on and, when they locked eyes, she received a second nod of recognition. This one meant quite a bit more to her.

 

Then her attention was drawn upward, where Faultline and her crew had taken up roost on the roof across the street. A giant of a man, bald and fat and covered in shell shaped growths stood next to a guy who looked rather ordinary if not for the orange skin and tail. A girl in green, another in a custom gas mask, and a third in a thick robe stood behind their leader, who stood with arms folded at the very edge of the roof.

 

Taylor whistled quietly.

 

Dauntless chuckled. “I know, right? Not every day you see this kind of gathering. New Wave even got involved.”

 

She quirked a quizzical eyebrow at him, to which he pointed up. Sure enough, there they were in a dazzling array of shimmering fields of power and potential blasts of lasers.

 

He touched her shoulder, gently turning towards the PRT side of the wall, where an opening was appearing. “Come on, let's get you checked out. We'll take it from here.”

 

=+= Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime =+=

 

Take it from there, they did. Taylor watched from the back of an armored troop carrier the size of school bus as Kaiser lowered the metal wall and the gathered powers of Brockton Bay descended on the tunnels. On her advice the more durable members were carrying some impressive explosive devices to deal with the...the nest...flower...thing. She'd have to come up with a name for that sooner or later. That is, if she didn't just go with 'hive'. Mulling over that, and exactly when she could escape to a shower, took her out of her own head for a while. Which was nice, given that a medic was prodding at her wrist – ostensibly to make sure the bone had set correctly before healing. For some regenerators that was the case. For others, it was not, which led to the bone being re-broken so it could be set and heal properly.

 

She rather hoped, and to be honest suspected, that she fell into the former category. One broken wrist was enough.

 

After a long time trying not to think about how much prodding fingers hurt an already sore area Taylor was given a clean – relatively speaking – bill of health. After the medic left and took his hateful fingers with him, Director Piggot approached her, followed by a pair of the biggest, most heavily armed and armored PRT troopers Taylor had ever seen. What was more worth noting was the Director's appearance. No longer did she look a dying woman. Where before her skin was an unhealthy gray it was now a warmer, more human pink. A face once held in a rictus of pain was now...well. It was still tense, but the woman's eyes were clear of their former fog of pain.

 

She nodded to Taylor as she approached. “Guardian.” A moment's pause. “You stink.”

 

Taylor gave a dry laugh. “I _was_ in a sewer at one point, Director.”

 

Piggot hummed. Or grunted. “Charming, I'm sure.”

 

“It had its moments.”

 

A corner of her mouth ticked up. It might have been a smile, given time to grow. It wasn't. “I see. Anyway, I'm going to want you to come in and give a full accounting of what happened down there. Any information you can share would be invaluable.”

 

Taylor looked down at her filthy costume, then back up at the Director. “Right now?”

 

“No. I need to stay and oversee things here, and _you_ need to get home and clean yourself up. When you do, can you please inform Tattletale that she doesn't need to go ahead with her plan? The Secretary of Defense would thank you, as would I.” Perhaps feeling she had explained enough, Director Piggot walked off.

 

Taylor, feeling that no such quality explanation had occurred, was left confused. Then, she just left.

 

=+= Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime =+=

 

She had never been more tired.

 

She had _also_ never wanted a shower more. Well. Maybe the day she became a Guardian.

 

…

 

Today was a close second.

 

As she'd made her way back to base the various _effluvia_ covering her costume had started to dry and flake off. In so doing they had managed to smell even worse, and that – that was not supposed to be possible. Curiously, as each piece flaked away, it dissolved. Crumbled first into flakes and then into nothingness. Which was also not supposed to be possible. Of course, she did have to acknowledge the fact that Nilbog was involved. Since Nilbog was a biological Tinker...probably...it would make sense for her to throw out the book on what was impossible when it came to his demented creations.

 

Anyway.

 

She was atop a building across the street from the base and reluctant to go in. Reason being that there were a number of vehicles parked around it. Of which she only recognized three. Lisa's, her dad's, and Sabah's. There were still two others. The first was a truck. A thick bodied, rust-painted pickup that was more dented than not. Mud splattered its tires and wheel arches and there was one of those thick, chromed tool chests in the bed. The second wasn't actually a car at all. It was a motorcycle, and laying eyes on its sleek lines and raw potential for speed roused something deep within her. A longing. Maybe it was because she was tired, or she was feeling especially reckless today, but she _wanted_ one.

 

She wanted to fly, to feel the power beneath her as the road stretched away over the horizon. To hear the rush of wind and the engine's roar and Lisa's warm body pressed against her.

 

Speak of the devil...

 

The door to the building that stood above their base groaned open and emitted a costumed, visibly tense Lisa. She fished a pair of earbuds out of a belt pouch and hopped up onto the trunk of her car. She folded her legs beneath her and rolled her head, flexing her shoulders to work out kinks.

 

Taylor dropped to the street, grunting from the effort of landing. Another first. Feeling that surprising her girlfriend may not the best idea at that moment, given the tension radiating from every line of that sleek, _sexy_ –

 

_Get it together, Taylor._

 

The point was that sneaking up wouldn't be the best idea. Or the easiest, given Taylor's general stench, but that was irrelevant. So she picked up a chunk of asphalt and pinged it off the bumper of Lisa's car. Lisa was off the car, reaching for the pistol she wasn't wearing, in a blur of speed that made Taylor proud. They stood across the street from each other, and for some reason neither of them moved.

 

Lisa spoke. “You uh, you're back.” She then saw Taylor's costume. “You're bleeding! Are you hurt? How bad? Do you need a doctor? I can call Pana –”

 

“I'm not hurt. I mean, I broke my wrist earlier, but it's healed now. None of that's mine.”

 

“ _You broke your –_ Taylor!” Lisa all but charged over, reaching out to physically inspect every single inch to satisfaction. Something she decided against about five feet away. The wind had shifted. Her nose wrinkled. “Holy hell. What _is_ that?”

 

Taylor gestured at herself. “This? Perfume. Courtesy of Nilbog's twisted little imagination.”

 

The tension flowed out of Lisa, riding on the wave of an almost inaudible sigh. “Perfume. Ha. Okay. Okay, you're okay. You're not hurt. You smell like a dead skunk's ass, but you're not hurt. So...yeah. Let's um, let's get inside. Clean you up. There's some people I think you want to meet.”

 

“Lead the way.” As they walked, Lisa making sure to stay upwind of Taylor, something occurred. “Director Piggot asked me to ask you not to go ahead with your plans. She mentioned the Secretary of Defense being grateful. Were you going to blackmail the military?”

 

“...no?”

 

=+= Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime =+=

 

The shower, she decided, was the pinnacle of human achievement. From that point, it would either be equivalent to or lessen than the pure supremacy of the combination of heated and running water. She luxuriated in it, standing beneath the showerhead with her face tilted up to fully experience the downpour. She scrubbed and scratched all over, erasing the last vestiges of evidence from her time in the tunnels. There had been stripes of dirt on her legs, dirt mixed with something _else_ , that had seeped through where her costume had torn or been ripped by claws. _That_ did not want to come off, but judicious use of a loofah had seen her through. Her face was a future acne battlefield, she could all but guarantee that.

 

And her hair! Whatever it was that made the... _stuff_...flake off her costume did not extend to the rest of her. There was this gross, massive _clump_ of stuff she didn't want to know about right between her shoulder blades. Every time it _thump_ ed wetly into her skin she wanted to scream. Instead she growled, and tried again to bring the whatever-it-was over her shoulder so she pick it apart with her fingers. Just like last time, she was unsuccessful.

 

She gave up. Turned the water off and reached through the curtain for the towel she'd left sitting on top of the toilet. Instead, she poked someone in the ribs.

 

“Ow, hey!” That someone protested.

 

“Sabah?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“What are you doing in here?”

 

“Because I was going to flush the toilet while you were showering and cause hilarity and shrieking?”

 

Taylor poked her head out to glare. “First of all, I would _not_ have shrieked, and second...” She noticed the droop in Sabah's posture. How still her otherwise energetic and fidgety friend was. How it looked like Sabah had bitten her nails to the quick. “you're sitting on my towel.”

 

Sabah hopped off the toilet and passed the towel through. Taylor took it, dried off, and wrapped herself up before swishing the curtain open. She was poking around the spare clothes Lisa had left for her – in the sink, for whatever reason – when Sabah spoke again.   
  


“It got...it got kinda crazy today, didn't it?”

 

Taylor found the underwear and scooped it up, then turned to Sabah. “Yeah,” she said. “It did. It wasn't supposed to, but...” she shrugged. “Now I'm getting dressed, so either scram or turn around.”

 

Sabah chose to turn around. Taylor dressed quickly. As she did, Sabah kept going. “You know, Lisa sort of, kind of, maybe went nuts when your radios went out. It was scary, a little bit. Your dad had to stop her from blackmailing the military to come save you.” A moment's pause. “She uh, she really cares about you.”

 

Warmth bloomed in Taylor's chest. A small smile spread across her lips. “Yeah. It's...it's kind of mutual.”

 

Sabah turned and looked Taylor over, nodding when she saw whatever she was looking for. “Good. It's about time you – _ohgod what is that?!_ ”

 

“What?!” The warmth turned hot, to alarm and a burst of fear. She looked over her shoulder. “What is what?!”

 

“This!” Sabah seized Taylor by the shoulders and turned her around. Moments later, she felt the clump of ruined hair being batted around. “This is _horrible_! It has to go, like right the fuck now. Sit on that toilet, and don't move. I'll be right back.” With that, Sabah marched out a woman on a mission.

 

Taylor sat on the toilet.

 

=+= Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime =+=

 

Her neck felt overexposed. The scissors went snicker-snack and another clump of hair fell to the ground. The knot of hair and she'd-rather-not-know had been bagged and thrown into the trash. What was happening now was something Sabah referred to as 'damage control'. Whatever that meant to Sabah, to Taylor it meant that her hair was being cut short. Like, really short. She felt like a sheep. Then she pictured Sabah as a farmer, overalls and straw hat and corncob pipe clenched between her teeth, bent to the task of shearing her sheep with oddly dark wool.

 

“If you laugh, this'll take longer.” Sabah then hummed, murmured thoughtful nonsense, and snipped another length of hair. “You are gonna look awesome, Taylor, I don't know why you were so cagey about this.”

 

“I couldn't _possibly_ say.”

 

“No sarcasm from you, or you might find yourself bald. Or bearded.” She clacked the scissors. “I'm in a whimsical mood.”

 

Taylor felt that pointing out scissors couldn't regrow hair would be pointless. She did it anyway, setting off a round of bickering about nonsense and – much more importantly – cheering up her friend. Thus did the time of the haircut pass, full of silliness and affection, bringing an end to this – Taylor's longest day. 

 

As well it should.

 

=+= Chapter 31: Mandatory Downtime =+=

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the arc with the long and informal title of 'Nilbog's Attempt to Subvert Brockton Bay's Protectorate Team With His Monstrous Creations But Fails Because He Didn't Know About Taylor.' From here, we're going to head into the formation of Taylor's team - with concrete roles and equipment and stuff, a more centralized antagonist, a whole bunch of fighting and running around, and maybe even some hot smexy fun. 
> 
> maybe. 
> 
> If you're good.


	32. Formalities and Plan(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which It Begins.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 32: Formalities and Plan(s)**

 

There were strangers in the base.

 

Clean, dry, and with rather less hair than before, Taylor left the bathroom to an unusual scene. Her dad had commandeered one of the beanbag chairs that had – somewhat mysteriously – appeared a few weeks ago and was bemusedly working out the various functions of a tablet computer. She sympathized. Only Lisa seemed able to fully utilize the thing, and that was only because she cheated and used her powers. He looked up when the door hissed shut behind her, a wide smile blooming across his face at the sight of her whole and unharmed. She grinned back.

 

As he stood, struggling somewhat to escape the confines of the beanbag, she saw Lisa breaking off her somewhat overly animated conversation with the strangers. One of them was a tall – nearly as tall as Taylor, but not quite. Ha. – girl with _very_ pale skin and equally black hair. Long, swishy hair that Taylor looked at with envy before the sword at the girl's waist caught her eye. It was long and thin, strangely elegant, with a slender hilt that was clearly fit to its bearer's hand. Her costume, such as it wasn't, consisted of form fitting jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket she'd thrown over one shoulder to dangle nonchalantly from a single finger. Overall, combined with her lithe figure and muscle tone, she looked like a dancer. 

 

The second stranger was rather short, but broad. Squat and thickly muscled the way Taylor imagined a wrestler might look. His head was shaven and he had a rather magnificent beard in shades of black and brown. His wildly gesturing hands were callused and dirty, like a craftsman's. He didn't have a sword, which Taylor found oddly comforting. There was a boxy, gun-shaped device on a table near him, however. Maybe he'd brought that. He wasn't wearing a costume either – cargo pants and a tank top that revealed a number of shiny burn scars on his arms. What's more –

 

That could wait. Right now she had a dad to hug. And hug him she did, throwing herself into his arms and feeling them wrap tightly around her. He squeezed her tight, kissed the top of her head and murmured “You scared the  _sh_ – crap out of us today, kiddo.” 

 

She felt a rush of bundled emotion, so tightly woven that identifying it was impossible. It brought tears to her eyes, prickling and stinging to be shed. “I'm sorry.” She mumbled into his shirt.

 

“No, no, don't be. It's all over now. We're just glad you're safe.” He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back to arm's length. His eyes were shiny, suspiciously so, but clear. He took a deep breath. “I think – yes – I think you've waited long enough.” 

 

With that, her dad spun her around and pushed her headlong into the hottest, most searing kiss she'd ever been part of as Lisa practically climbed her, wrapping arms and legs around Taylor. She, in turn, dropped her own hands to Lisa's thighs to support her girlfriend and proceeded to do her level best to kiss away the anxiety steaming from every pore. No matter _how_ long it took. After a long minute – with tongue – Lisa broke the kiss to bury her face in Taylor's shoulder and took a deep, shuddering breath.

 

Lips tingling, face burning, Taylor brought a hand up to card through Lisa's hair. “I'm okay.” she murmured, lips brushing the curve of Lisa's ear. “I'm just fine.”

 

“I know.” Lisa's lips traced the words into Taylor's collar. Somewhere in the depths of her mind she took note of the note of the fact that her dad was _right behind her_. Fuck it. “Saw you earlier, remember? I couldn't do this earlier. It was overdue.”

 

=+= Chapter 32: Formalities and Plan(s) =+=

 

Her dad, followed by Sabah, came down the stairs into the base with arms full of bags that seemed to contain nothing but delicious smells. Taylor made a noise so indecent it made Lisa – enthroned on Taylor's lap – turn slightly pink. While the other two were gone retrieving what had better be food, efforts had been made to make a table out of chairs and an exercise mat. That didn't work – an obvious thing to see in hindsight – the decision was made through consensus that everyone was just going to sit on the floor and be happy about it. The strangers, volunteering because Lisa flat out said she wasn't going to move and therefore trapping Taylor, made a circle out of the beanbag chairs and some folded jackets.

 

“As the oldest here,” Sabah made her argument, setting the food bags in the center of the circle, “I motion that I get first pick of the beanbags.”

 

“Motion denied,” Her dad dropped into the most comfortable of them with a grin. “because _I_ am the oldest person here. Anyway, we've got Chinese food, Thai, barbecue, burgers, and... you may even be able to get some of it before _someone_ eats it all.” He then looked directly at his daughter, making it clear who that would be.

 

Taylor glared, a glare that said _if I weren't tired, and also stuck, you'd be in for it._ By nature of being her dad it slid right off him. That, and he wasn't exactly wrong. Then food was being passed around as people asked for this or that, and Sabah struck up a conversation with the girl stranger, and her dad drew the boy stranger into a discussion of the day's revelations. Lisa refused to move, so that Taylor could feed herself. So, after a quick bit of bickering, they reached a compromise: Taylor would keep her arms around Lisa, and Lisa wouldn't use her eyes to devastating, pouting effect. Relationships were about compromise. Even if this one felt somewhat one-sided.

 

On the plus side, food. Taylor ate everything Lisa gave to her, and together they demolished an order of pad thai, which was spicy enough to keep Taylor awake for the conversation that seemed to be brewing. Largely because there was an extent to which a person could be referred to as 'stranger' after sharing food, and that had been reached. To that end, Taylor waited for a pause in the small talk and pounced. “So, I don't actually know who you guys are.”

 

The boy stranger frowned. “We introduced ourselves, though.” The frown vanished as understanding dawned. “Which you weren't here for. Gotcha. Well, my name's Roo.”

 

“Roo?” Her dad asked. Roo nodded.

 

“It's short for Prudence. Yes, I'm an Indian man with no accent named Prudence. There's a story, but I don't feel like telling it right now even though I probably will later, so...suck it.” He coughed. “Or – or don't. Um.” He turned to the girl next to him. “Help?”

 

“There's no helping a case of foot-in-mouth as bad as yours, Roo.” They spoke with the ease and familiarity of people who knew each other quite well. “And I'm Foil. Well, not really. But. You know. Names. Foil'll do, for now.”

 

Roo and Foil. She smiled. “Cool. I'm Guardian. We can all do the real name thing later, except for you, Roo, because you don't seem to care.”

 

Roo clarified. “That's cuz I'm not a cape. Genuine normal person, here.”

 

Foil snorted. He threw an egg roll at her, which she ate. “So,” she spoke between mouthfuls, displaying a lax approach to table manners. Fitting, since there wasn't a table. “can we talk for a minute about how crazy it is that the country's gone to war against one person?”

 

“I can't promise I'll stay awake.” Taylor felt obligated to add. “So can we maybe put that off until we've all gotten some sleep? Do you guys actually have somewhere to stay?”

 

“Yeah.” Roo picked through his plate of pulled pork, selecting the choicest bits to eat with his fingers. “Lil – Uh, _Foil_ has an apartment here, and a couch she's letting me sleep on.”

 

“Cool.” A massive yawn ripped free. “Okay, time for bed. Tails, that means you have to get off me.”

 

“Don't wanna.”

 

“Tails...”

 

A huffy sigh. “ _Fine_.”

 

=+= Chapter 32: Formalities and Plan(s) =+=

 

Then it was tomorrow. A new day, a new dawn, and a brave new world. A world of news stations reeling from a State of the Union address delivered while Taylor was sleeping in, revealing what she'd already known; an emergency session of Congress had voted unanimously to declare war against Jaime Rinke. She could almost imagine it: the reporters on the edges of their seats, mere feet from one of the world's most powerful men, clutching tape recorders and tablet computers and already planning how to tackle the question of the day. Just who _was_ Jaime Rinke? It was almost amusing – almost, because there was nothing amusing about this – to imagine their slight disappointment when Jaime's _other_ , more notorious identity was revealed. She imagined the blood draining from their faces as they were told.

 

It would the second ever mobilization of the US military on its own soil. The first, of course, being the hunt and decimation of the group of villains called the Slaughterhouse Nine. Though they numbered twelve at their time of extinction. That memory would be fresh in the minds of these reporters, because they would have done their research beforehand. They would know that the running battle left a fifteen mile swathe of Arizona – dubbed the Scar – uninhabitable from the aftereffects of so many powers and weapons being used. They would know that last time it took twelve villains and the eradication of a dozen towns in Washington state, and they would feel fear down to their bones as they wondered about how terrible _one_ man would have to be for war to be declared upon him.

 

And all of that before breakfast.

 

There was a Lisa-burrito on her couch. It was watching TV and eating a bowl of cereal while her dad was having a quiet, intense discussion with someone on the living room cordless. Too hungry to eavesdrop, Taylor only passed through on her way to the kitchen. She stopped only to kiss her burrito girlfriend good morning – coffee and cornflakes. Delicious – before going to pull out enough ingredients to get a good eggs n' bacon breakfast going. Orange juice and everything. A proper breakfast. If Granddad Hebert were still alive, he would have called it a soldier's breakfast and refused to let her clean up any cooking debris. He had been a hard man, roughened and shaped by life, but she'd never doubted he loved her.

 

She spent the time between preparation and eating remembering some of her favorite grandpa-isms. When she was done, she plated up her eggs and bacon, poured herself a massive OJ, and carried it all back to the living room just in time for BREAKING NEWS to explode across the TV screen in blisteringly bright fonts. She pushed Lisa's feet off the couch and sat down just in time for the anchor return – visibly shaken – and announce that Las Vegas was under attack. 

 

=+= Chapter 32: Formalities and Plan(s) =+=

 

The helicopter was flying high over the streets of the neon city, darkened buildings weakly reflecting the light of the pale morning sun. There were running figures _everywhere –_ pouring out of buildings, spilling up onto rooftops, and racing down car-cramped streets. Both fleeing and pursuing. Predator, and prey. Taylor saw the screamers with their long-legged lope, and maybe it was a trick of the light or some thing with the camera, because they looked bigger than the ones she'd fought. Acted smarter, too. They worked like a pack of jackals, herding and isolating and surrounding the people they chased. She narrowed her eyes, breakfast forgotten, at the sight of some strange flash of light she saw in the swipe of a screamer's claw.

 

Out onto the roofs, behind the ones who'd run up there, came the shooters. Bigger, brighter, more powerful. She watched their purple flame burn a fleeing woman to ash as the man next to her tried to jump to an adjacent roof. He failed. The camera cut away before his limp body could hit the ground. The 'copter banked away from the Strip towards the more residential areas, while the weak voice of the reporter talked about a resistance being put up by local heroes, the Mafia and their assorted parahumans, and the Vegas Police Department. They had set up a perimeter in six blocks around the police station and were trying to get as many civilians inside it as possible.

 

It was a sight, to see that much power brought to bear against Nilbog's monsters. They hit an oncoming horde of screamers like a freight train – Brutes and Changers and Tinkers in powered armor stopping the charge dead. Movers and triggermen flitted above them, pouring all manner of ranged fire into the seething mass. Behind the line, people fled to relative safety. They were holding. She found herself urging them on. Lisa's hand sought out hers, wrapping around and squeezing tight.

 

Her voice was a shocked whisper. “Fuck me. Was this what it was like?”

 

Taylor nodded. “More or less.”

 

She meant to continue, and was kept from doing so by her dad's strangled swear. Her attention was jerked back to the TV in time for a quintet of the larger shooters, followed by a mass of smaller ones, erupt from houses to the side and behind the established line. “Come on,” someone was whispering. “turn. Watch your flanks!” She didn't realize it was her until Lisa stroked her thumb across the back of Taylor's hand. The big shooters spread out, taking cover behind abandoned cars before lifting their gun-arms and loosing a volley of massive orbs of violet fire. They were followed by mass fire from their smaller counterparts.

 

It tore the line apart. Screamers died by the dozen. So did the heroes. Oh, they fought like _demons_ , but the line had broken. There were too many. At some point, the order to retreat was given, because the Movers scooped up the triggermen that were still alive and fled. A flanking maneuver. A fucking flanking maneuver. These things were _smart_ – smarter than they should be.

 

The camera swiveled to zoom in on one of the big shooters. It looked up. Raised its arm. Fire filled the screen. Cut to static. The anchor reappeared, looking as if he'd just been sick. “My God,” He passed a hand over his face. “ladies and gentlemen...” A visible effort to compose himself followed, and his voice steadied. “Ladies and gentlemen, this incredible heroism we've just seen...God be with those men and women. And with us all.” A pause. “We go now to the Protectorate headquarters in Maine, where Alexandria is giving a first-ever press conference.”

 

The camera cut to a woman in black. She spoke, but Taylor wasn't listening. Blood was rushing in her ears and she felt – something. Like rage and heartbreak and the inferno of determination. She was breathing hard through her nose. “Lisa.”

 

“Yeah, baby?”

 

“Do you have Foil's number?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Call her.”

 

“Taylor...” Lisa sounded...sorrowful. Taylor closed her eyes as they burned. “Taylor, look at me.”

 

Taylor swallowed past the growing knot in her throat and met her girlfriend's eyes. _Oh, wow._ Her mouth spoke of its own volition, spilling thoughts as they came. “We have to – that can't have been for nothing.”

 

She became aware of her dad's presence, warm and soothing, behind her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It won't be.”

_Breathe in, Taylor._ She did. 

 

_Breathe out_ . She did. 

 

She cried anyway.

 

She shook in the arms of the two people she cared for the most. Then she dried her tears and went to work.

 

=+= Chapter 32: Formalities and Plan(s) =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who just picked up the story, welcome!
> 
> Everyone else, welcome back!
> 
> Please, if you liked this chapter, don't keep it to yourself. I look forward to each and every kudo, comment, and bookmark you guys see fit to give. 
> 
> With that said, because I don't have any real commentary here, I'll see you in the next one.


	33. Mobilize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the mighty leviathan that is the Protectorate turns the entirety of its power against a single madman.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 33: Mobilize**

 

They gathered in the base, the five of them. Her, calm and still and cross-legged atop her desk. Lisa, doing many things with many pieces of technology with having a discussion with Super Assistant Kenneth over a hands-free in her ear. Sabah was drinking an unhealthily large coffee. Foil was pacing, long strides from one side of the base to the other. As she did she twirled her sword, tracing patterns in the air with the glittering blade. And then there was Roo, who looked like he hadn't slept much. There was a bulging canvas duffel that was never far from his side, and he had an air of nervous excitement to him. Her dad had wanted to come, had insisted upon it until a gentle reminder from her had him remembering that he had a job. Instead of his presence, he'd extracted a promise: no going to Vegas without talking to him about it first. It seemed kind of strange to get permission from her dad to go and do what every single fraction of the Guardian in her was screaming at her to do, but if it would make him feel better – she'd do it.

 

What they needed, and what she suspected Lisa was working on, was coordination. Doubtless, there were many questions to be answered in pursuit of that, but she – Taylor – was only interested in answering two. First, when was the PRT leaving? Second, how annoyed will they be when four extra people show up? Also, and somewhat unrelated: what was in the bag Roo brought with him? Unlike the first two questions, which didn't have answers (yet), she _could_ get an answer to that last one. She got his attention by making eye contact and asked “Hey, Roo, what's in the – ”

 

She was interrupted when Lisa clapped her hands together twice and shouted “Okay, campers! Gather 'round the fire. It's story time!” Nobody moved. She slumped in an exaggerated pout. “Or don't. Fine. Here's the skinny. Protectorate is treating this whole thing as an Endbringer event. One of the early ones, before the military stopped showing up. That means any cape who volunteers is part of the military chain of command. What that means for us is that, once we get to Vegas, we go and find Lieutenant Commander Susan Murphy and go from there. Everyone leaving from Brockton Bay has been asked to go to the official staging area, which is Fentry Park. From there, a bunch of indie teleporters are going to get us all there as quickly as they can. Any questions? No? Awesome.”

 

Sabah stepped in. “Now we just have to decide who's going. I'm not.” Foil raised a brow at that, but said nothing. Roo stepped into the silence, heaving his bag of stuff onto Lisa's desk with a grunt and a hefty  _thud_ .

 

“I'm not either,” He opened the bag, zipper catching a few times, revealing the goodies hidden within, and started placing them on the table. “But! I'm _kinda_ going with you, in that I spent most of last night putting the finishing touches on this stuff.”

 

Taylor made her way over. There were silvery, egg-shaped devices had strips of sunny electric tape on them. Each and every one of them with the same thing written on it:  **LAST RESORT** . T hey got their own little section of table, well away from the other things. On the other side was everything else. Thin, rectangular boxes in stacks of four, made of that same silvery metal. There were cylinders with vented cones on one end. Something with roughly the same dimensions as a cantaloupe with a seam around the circumference and two more on both top and bottom. It was all very interesting looking, and with the exception of the egg-shaped things – fucking  _grenades_ are you  _serious_ – she had no idea what any of it was. 

 

So she asked. “Roo. Two questions. First, how explosive  _are_ those grenades and second, what the hell is the rest of this stuff?” 

 

Everyone seemed to think she had some good questions. Except for Roo, who simply rolled his eyes. “The grenades and mines are perfectly safe until they're deployed. I'm not nearly crazy enough to bring unstable explosives  _anywhere,_ let alone here. As for the rest of it...” 

 

=+= Chapter 33: Mobilize =+=

 

'The rest of it' was a system of sensors with vastly complicated tech stuffed in them. Once deployed, and the hub(the cantaloupe thing) was activated, they would make a real-time three dimensional map of their surroundings. The idea being that whatever building ended up being used as a base would be almost impossible to, say, tunnel up beneath. She liked the idea, as equally as she hated the idea of being surprised again. Once was enough. _More_ than enough. Looking over this stuff was starting to make that unique, Guardian-ly itch reappear. The itch was to use the equipment in front of her, to protect those that needed it and make safe a place for fellow fighters to recuperate between battles.

 

But she did wonder... “Roo?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You said you're not a cape.” She passed a hand over the laden table. “But this is...this all looks cape-made.”

 

Roo scratched his scalp. The faintest stubble was starting to grow, as dark as his beard. “Well, it sort of is and isn't.” She glared and he laughed, holding his hands up. “Sorry, sorry! I said that because the bombs _were_ made by a cape, a friend of mine I met at Cornell. The sensor pack is the result of a collaboration between the geology and computer science departments from when I was at MIT. We were trying to make it easier to survey cave systems. It worked, but the amount of data the sensors made – no computer small enough to carry around could handle it, so we never used it. I'm thinking you hook this up to one of the generators Dragon's bringing in –” He clapped his hands. “Couldn't hurt.”

 

Taylor's brows rose. That was an impressive amount of verbiage delivered very quickly, and what's more; he didn't stutter. She was about to thank him for bringing all of that with him from Boston when Sabah chimed in with, “That's some nerdy shit, man.”

 

Roo grinned at her. “Thanks.” The grin faded. “I just, you know, kinda felt bad that I couldn't go with you guys and help, so I did this.”

 

“It'll help.” Taylor said. “I don't doubt that.” For some reason, he looked reassured by her words. Which caused no end of puzzlement that was ultimately put to and end by Lisa clearing her throat.

 

She held out a phone, a strange expression on her face. “It's Director Piggot. She wants to talk to you.”

 

Frowning, Taylor took the offered device and put to her ear. “Hello?”

 

“ _Guardian, are you busy?_ ” The Director's tone was clipped, her words hurried. A great deal of noise was in the background, hinting at a lot of activity.

 

Taylor looked around. Foil had started packing all of the stuff Roo had brought out back into the bag it came from. Sabah was watching, seeming oddly focused on the ripple and flex in the pale girl's arms. Lisa had gone to the gun safe and was standing in front of it, frowning at the contents. “Not especially, but I plan to be very soon.”

 

“ _I imagine so. Before that, I want you to come in._ ”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

“ _You're the only cape in the city who's seen combat against these things. If you could come in, give these capes an idea of what they're up against, it_ will _save lives._ ”

 

_Dirty pool_ , Taylor wanted to say. What she said instead was, “Give me five minutes. I'll get back to you.”

 

“ _Call Kenneth. He'll put you through to me._ ” Then the Director hung up. Taylor sighed.

 

=+= Chapter 33: Mobilize =+=

 

As luck would have it, the place this informational briefing was to take place in Fentry Park. After being reassured that Foil and Lisa and whoever else was going to Vegas would meet her there, Taylor headed out. Getting from the base, which was close to the Docks, to the park, which was not, generally took about fifteen minutes by car. Public transport added anywhere between five and ten minutes to travel time. Keeping to rooftops and alleys and going in as straight a line as possible, she managed to run there in 18 minutes. It helped, burning off any nervous energy she might have had on the way, so when she dropped off the roof of the brownstone across the street from the park she only felt warm and loose and confident.

 

Fentry Park was named for the Mayor who funded it. He was a heavy believer in the idea that 'kids today' were spending too much time indoors and that, given the proper incentive – a park, for example – his worry would sort itself out. To make sure it would be impossible for a child to walk past his park and not play on it, he spared no expense in its construction. Top of the line playground equipment, sandboxes, strategically placed benches for parents to keep an eagle-eye on their reckless offspring, and a wide, gently sloping field fit for any activity. The whole thing was ringed in carefully trimmed and maintained evergreens. Atypically for something built in the Bay in the 80s, when the city took a downturn, its opening was a rousing success. For the next twenty years it had a respectable, active patronage and was widely regarded as the best thing Mayor Fentry gave to his city.

 

The sight of so many capes, and with such a heavy tension in the air, felt intrinsically _wrong_. Like the park wasn't meant for anything other than a place for kids to run themselves into a tired pile of silly laughter. Or maybe it was because that this park was where Taylor as a young girl spent most of her Saturdays. She would arm herself with the mighty Sword of Trees(a branch or twig) and the Penny Shield(her mom's sweater) and go on wondrous adventures. Sometimes with a trusted friend and companion whose hair was the color of fire when the sun hit it. Sometimes...and sometimes it was just her against the all the evils her imagination could conjure.

 

She was met under the trees by a tall, broad man in a centurion's helm. A kite shield the color of brass hung from his back, and he leaned on a lance with a silver-metal point. She could sense the Arc within it, and once again found it lacking. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long and dyed a deep violet. His costume was more armor than ornament, smelling of leather and polish and metal. Dauntless. “Guardian,” His voice was quiet and hoarse. He shifted his lance to the crook of his left arm and offered his hand, which she took. “Glad you could make it. I was part of the clean-up team that went in after you.”

 

“Oh.” The handshake finished. She wasn't sure how to answer. “I hope I didn't leave too many for you guys.” Not sure why she said that, either.

 

Dauntless snorted, his lips quirking up. “Just a few, and let me tell you, they were more than enough to make me _very_ happy you agreed to do this.”

 

“About that...”

 

“Yeah? Change your mind?”

 

“No. Just – how many people are here?”

 

He grinned. “Everyone who's going is here to listen to your words of wisdom. 'S a full house.”

 

_...Wonderful_ . 

 

=+= Chapter 33: Mobilize =+=

 

They gave her a microphone and set up a projector screen. A little clicker to change slides. Then they left her alone – alone in the face of every single cape in the city. The Empire in full force, with Kaiser prominently displayed in their center. Dick. All two of the ABB capes were there. Lung was glowing slightly. She saw tendrils of flame licking from shoulder to elbow. The Bay's PRT team was in full attendance as well. Wards, too. And they were all looking at her. The moment stretched out as the weight of fifty gazes pressed down on her. She swallowed dryly. Then clicked the little clicker. The mangled body of a screamer appeared on the screen behind her. Out in the crowd, someone hissed in a breath.

 

“This is the bulk of what we're going to be up against.” That didn't sound like Taylor. She sounded like her mom. Clear and cool and confident. “Screamers. You'll know they're nearby because of it – there's no mistaking it. They are very fast. I don't have specific numbers but they can keep up with me, and I can outrun some kinds of car. They're strong, too. Strong enough to dig tunnels in solid rock – which reminds me.” Unbidden, the screen moved in on the splayed claws. “These things are razor sharp. I don't know how they fare against Tinker armor but they cut through Kevlar like construction paper.”

 

A man's voice, thick with some kind of Slavic accent, rang out. “What about ranged capabilities?” 

 

Taylor shook her head. “None, for these guys. They're strictly close range, and they're built for it. They come at you in hordes, never less than ten.”

 

Then came a woman's voice. “How smart are they?”

 

“Smart enough to set traps.” That set a rumble of conversation through the gathered capes. “They ambushed me in a cavern by putting something shiny right beneath a light where it would catch my eye. They only  _ look  _ like mindless beasts. As for specific weaknesses? Guns work. Blades work, if they're sharp enough, but I wouldn't recommend melee combat unless you're extremely good or extremely durable. They don't like being set on fire, but I'm not sure anything does.” 

 

There was a small ripple of laughter. It wasn't a joke, and it wouldn't have been funny even if it was, but there was a tension that was released. Nerves were settled. She clicked the clicker. A headless shooter came up. “ _ These  _ guys are the ones with ranged capability. Their arm is some kind of biological cannon that shoots this purple plasma or fire or something. Hot enough to scorch rock, but not melt it. For the record, they  _ do _ have heads. They kind of look like skulls, but with a third eye above the other two, and they glow this kind of evil-looking green. They like to hide behind a group of screamers and shoot into them, and they don't care about killing their own. Also...” 

 

And so the briefing went. Information was given and questions were answered. As the morning wore on, and the departure time drew near, Taylor saw the capes gathered begin to realize the magnitude of what they were up against. While she was talking herself into a _very_ dry throat, she spotted Foil and Lisa – the former carrying a familiar canvas duffel – find a spot not far from where the PRT were milling. She finished explaining, or maybe failing to explain, what the nest itself looked like and what defended it, and was about to ask if anyone had any more questions when she caught a sign of movement on her periphery. A flash of blue.

 

Armsmaster approached, mouth turned down into a grim slash of a frown. He gestured, reaching out for the mic, which she handed over without question. If he had something he wanted to say, she was not going to stop him. Surprisingly, he turned it off for a moment and spoke only to her. “Guardian. I want to thank you for doing this.”

 

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I – um – you're welcome. I was, uh, I was happy to help.”

 

He nodded, face softening for a moment, before turning away and turning the mic back on. “This briefing is now concluded. In fifteen minutes, transports will be arriving to take us to the Las Vegas staging area. Please use this time to make any last minute preparations and, should you choose to leave, do so now.”

 

Having said his piece, Armsmaster went back to his group. As the various groups turned their attentions away from her and began conversing among themselves, Taylor was left to reflect that he had a gift for hiding how uncomfortable public speaking made him. She only saw it because she made a great effort to do the same thing.

 

=+= Chapter 33: Mobilize =+=

 

She met Lisa and Foil by a bench in the shade of an old, gnarled tree. They were a good distance from the other groups, and could easily see each and every one without much difficulty. Also, Taylor noted, their backs were to the open city. It was almost as if – and her lips twitched upwards at the thought – the spot had been chosen on purpose. There was a familiar canvas duffel with the twin layers of protection that were being beneath the bench and behind Lisa's feet. In direct comparison with Lisa's studied patience, Foil was a tightly wound coil of energy; pacing in long strides and shredding a plucked leaf between her fingers.

 

Taylor was somewhere in between. She had what she was by now sure were the inborn battle instincts of a Guardian keeping her on the level. Alongside that she had experience with the enemy they were about to face, which did a lot to ease any anxiety about the unknown. On the other hand, _because_ she had that experience and was also a sane, thinking human being, she felt a small knot in her stomach that had to be apprehension. She longed for the weight of her pistol on her leg, ran the fingertips of her hand across her sheathed knife. It was a comfort in the small of her back, and would see no small amount of use in the coming hours. She knew it would drive her dad up the wall – perhaps literally – but the idea of her being anywhere but the front line was like sandpaper scraped on the tip of her tongue.

 

“Hey.” Lisa's voice drew her from her thoughts. She reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind Taylor's ear. “So it turns out that my powers work better when I'm in the same time zone as what I'm looking at. Which means I have to go.” She gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “And I had such plans.”

 

Taylor caught her girlfriend's hand as it fell, winding their fingers together. She stepped a little closer. It would be easy to play along with the breezy banter, but this was too...too big to do it. “I'm not sure I want you to come.”

 

Lisa sighed, genuine this time. “So much for lightening the mood. Look, I'm not sure I wanna go. But – I don't know. It seems shitty to let my girlfriend go to war without me. And I don't trust those analyst guys the Protectorate's dug up for this. They might – they might get something wrong, or miss something. I won't.”

 

“Okay.” Taylor nodded. “Okay.”

 

“I brought your gun.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The time came. Transports, looking kind of like buses that learned to fly, swooped into Fentry Park a half-dozen at a time. Still holding Lisa's hand, Taylor led the three of them onto one to Vegas, and to war.

 

=+= Chapter 33: Mobilize =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to see here. Please disperse. 
> 
> But before you do, consider dropping a kudo, comment, or bookmark.


	34. Teammates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people are met, information is given, and a desert sun is hot.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 34: Teammates**

 

The Las Vegas staging area was the parking lot in the back of a Las Vegas High School, the building itself having been turned into a de facto headquarters. Its construction led credence to the idea that the architects who designed prisons were the same ones who did high schools. Its brick-and-stucco walls, painted a chipped and fading tan, were wide and tall and austere. Very few windows, and the ones that _were_ there were small. Too small to jump out of, and even then there weren't any above the ground floor. The parking lot out back was a vast, wide blacktop. Large enough to fit all students and faculty. Behind that was the football field, dry-yellow and dying in the desert heat. 

 

It was weird to see a high school turned into a fortress. Turrets were placed at each corner of the roof, and strategically in between. In addition to that, men, armored and armed, patrolled. The entire building shimmered with a familiar pale-blue field. Not as strong as Taylor remembered. Maybe it was in a passive state? After that there were large sections of the parking lot designated as a landing zone for incoming transports and teleporters, neither of which came alone. It was also a toss up as to which was louder. The rest of it was tents of varying purpose, sprawling out into and taking over the entirety of the football field.

 

As Taylor was stepping out of the transport a pleasantly female voice burred with a bittersweet-familiar mechanical tone was saying that she and her group should “report to tent B5, where you will receive further instruction.” After noting how viciously – if unsurprisingly – _hot_ it was, she saw that each tent had a plastic red placard by each entrance with a white letter-number combination emblazoned front and center. The one closest to her was A1, so the magic of common sense gave her a basic idea of where to go. So she did. But not before checking to make sure that Lisa and Foil were following. Thanking Sabah for making her costume as breathable as possible, she led the way past tents A2, 3, 4, and 5 before turning towards the football field.

 

Interesting. Was it done this way every time, she wondered? She hoped so. It was an effective piece of organization and, from memories of her dad's grumbling rants on the subject, such a thing was to be lauded. It would certainly cut down on the chaos of having so many people in one place if the setup stayed the same every time it was needed.

 

Tent B5 was host to a series of folding tables and chairs, laid end-to-end from just inside the entrance to a few feet away from the back wall. The tent was somewhere between forty and fifty feet long, maybe half that wide, and much cooler inside than it should be. There was a three square-foot cube in between the far end of the tables, and standing by it was an unfamiliar woman. A seven foot, mostly naked woman whose modesty was preserved by strategically placed panes of glimmering, iridescent energy. The side of her head was shaved, swirling tattoos decorating that side of her face stretching from jaw to scalp. What remained of her hair was a shimmering, impossible white, braided down over her shoulder. Her eyes had neither iris nor pupil, her eyes an expanse of open-sea blue. An incredible beauty of high cheekbones and smoothly muscled limbs, when coupled with the four foot horn of interlocking planes of energy coming from the air slightly above her forehead, certainly made for a _striking_ first impression.

 

“Good, you're here.” Narwhal's voice was accented. A mix of French and something else. “Take your seats, we've only twenty minutes before the first sortie leaves, and some of you are on it.” Her lips curved up. “I would hate for you to go to battle confused.”

 

They sat. Quickly.

 

=+= Chapter 43: Teammates =+=

 

Previously unseen lines on the bottom of the cube lit up, climbing in sharp, 90 degree turns to the topmost panel. It opened, a series of panels sliding away like the opening of a camera lens. It began to hum, the glow from within spilling out and shaping the city of Las Vegas in the air above it. The hologram of the city had been sectioned off in three different colors: green, red, and gray. The center of the city was gray, lightening into red and then green in an unbroken circle around the outskirts. As Taylor watched, the border of the gray and red areas moved. A millimeter at a time, but very definitely moving backwards. Gray advancing, red retreating. Slowly, _achingly_ slowly, but moving.

 

“What you're seeing is a real-time holographic map of the city, courtesy of the joint efforts of Dragon and the United States military.” A series of dots began to appear, scattered around the city. Upon closer inspection, and a bit of narrowed eyes, Taylor saw that the dots were actually several smaller dots very close to each other. They, too, were moving. Sometimes in great leaps, sometimes in smooth, deliberate motions. “These are the sorties currently deployed in the city. They are engaged in evacuation, search and rescue, and scouting for what we are now referring to as 'the hive'. Its exact location has been hard to pin down, but our Thinkers and thermal imaging have narrowed it down to within a half a square mile of this area.” A pulsing red dot appeared in the center of the city.

 

“And the colors?” Someone else asked. Taylor couldn't tell who, she'd never heard their voice before. Male. Coarse. A vague hint of Eastern Europe in the consonants of his words. “I imagine they indicate the sections of the city we control?”

 

“They do.” Narwhal confirmed. She didn't nod, but looked like she wanted to. A learned behavior to avoid braining people with her horn, maybe. Or maybe she thought nodding was unprofessional. Who was Taylor to say? “Green indicates the areas of the city that are under our complete control. Also where the military has established quarantine. Red is the conflicted zone, where civilians may still be in hiding and Nilbog's creatures may be encountered, but not in great number. Usually. The areas in gray are where the enemy is in complete control. They are lost to us for now.” She cleared her throat. “Now, for your assignments. I did not choose them, so if you have a problem, do not bring it to me.”

 

The map changed to a roster of every cape in the tent. Next to each name was an icon. As Narwhal spoke the names and icons drifted to different areas where they were absorbed by other rosters that appeared seemingly for that purpose. Taylor was gratified to see that whoever chose the teams was no man's fool. Everyone was being played to their strengths. Lisa was going to the command tent, she and Foil to an attack/scout team. The assignments went on, but she stopped paying attention after that, choosing instead to focus on the memory of the city map.

 

Narwhal finished up by saying. “Okay, everybody got it? Guardian, Foil, your sortie is leaving in eight minutes. I'm leading that team, so wait a moment and we'll leave together. Those of you in non-combat or search and rescue roles should report to your respective tents, where someone else will take over, and do so now. All hands on deck, from now until it's over.”

 

=+= Chapter 34: Teammates =+=

 

“Narwhal?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You said you were leading our team. Is – is there anyone else on it beside us?”

 

The older – and much taller, which was an experience for Taylor – cape was currently leading the way through the ordered grid of white tents. There wasn't a _lot_ of activity, mostly capes going one way or the other or men and women in uniform carrying important looking pieces of stuff around. Regardless, Narwhal was definite a respected and known presence, garnering nods and stepping asides and even the odd salute. Narwhal nodded. “Yes. Two others. A partnership, I'm told. Until the others started arriving, the teams sent out numbered no more than three. For now, the standard is five. The others of our group are waiting for us by the departure area, which is just up here.” 

 

The departure area, which indeed was not far, was one of those covered walkways the students would wait under for parental pick up on rainy days. Rather, it  _ had  _ been. Now it was a gunmetal gray corridor that passed through the field surrounding the school building. There were no windows that Taylor could see, and one entrance: an interlocked spiral of pearlescent metal that bore a more than passing resemblance to the hologram projector cube seen earlier. Standing in front of it were four people. Two of them wore PRT issue body armor from the chest down, full-face helmets reflecting the overhead sun. The rifles they held were sleek, futuristic assemblies of silvered metal and polished wood. 

 

In front of these troopers, talking quietly to each other, were the other two members of the team. The taller of the pair was a man with a mostly shaved head, save for a thin strip of _very_ red hair that was doing its level best to become a mohawk. His face was long and angular and he had a thick, long, ruby-gold beard that he seemed rather fond of. He had the general musculature of someone who exercised for fitness than for purpose and very pale, very clear blue eyes. His costume was an armored vest, arms bare, arm guards, some flatteringly fitted pants, and thick-soled armored boots. All of it dyed a mix of dark yellows and reds. There were two other things of note about this man. The first was that he wore no mask. The second was that he wore upon his back an honest-to-goodness, metal-and-wood shield.

 

The woman was shorter than her partner, though by no means small. Her blue hair was up in a tail that knotted at the base of her skull. Her face was as angular as his, though the lines of her cheekbones, jaw, and chin were sharper. More elegant. Almost...regal. She had amber colored eyes and the body of a competitive weightlifter a few years into retirement: powerfully and visibly muscled, but without the tautness of skin that was common to a lifter in their prime. Her costume followed the same general medieval theme – a thick metal breastplate dyed vibrant, eye-catching red. Shoulder pads – though Taylor was certain there was a more official word for them – rounded out and made already significant shoulders look thicker. Her arms, legs and feet were more of the same metal armor. She carried no weapon and yet at the end of each of her armored gloves were a pair of spikes. Under an arm she carried a helmet that looked for all the world like the head of a hawk, and again wore no mask. She saw them first, and _thunk-_ ed her shoulder into her partner's chest.

 

“It's about time you three showed up.” Her voice was clear and strong and accented. Not _quite_ Russian, but in that neighborhood. “I was starting to think we would have to do this alone. We _could,_ of course, but it's always nice to do things with friends.”

 

“Indeed.” His voice was like hers, only deeper and rough. He said nothing further, only smiling at them, showing very white teeth.

 

Narwhal stepped into the silence, breaching it. “I'm sorry we kept you waiting. Guardian, Foil, allow me to introduce Skjoldur and his partner Spike. They'll be accompanying us on our mission.”

 

Foil stepped forward. “Nice to meet you both, I'm sure. But about the mission – we still don't know what it is we're doing.”

 

Spike snorted. Narwhal looked sheepish. As much as a woman with a massive horn and entirely blue eyes could. “Right. It's simple. We lost contact with the Las Vegas Police Department about...half-an-hour ago. At last we knew, they had forty-four civilians in their care. We're going to find out why and what – if anything – happened.”

 

=+= Chapter 34: Teammates =+=

 

The time between introduction and departure was given over to the group for some last minute preparations. For Foil, that meant tracking down some armor pieces that fitted themselves to her slender torso, arms, and legs. For Spike, Skjoldur, and Narwhal, that meant having a quiet conversation in French in front of the door. For Taylor, it meant tracking down the armory tent and finding herself some ammunition for her pistol. It turned out to be not that difficult. All she had to do was follow her nose, picking out the gradually strengthening smell of gunpowder, until it led her to a relatively isolated tent underneath a basketball hoop. She stepped around a trio of soldiers checking their rifles and into the tent. Like the one where they were briefed, it was cooler on the inside than it should have been. Unlike the tent where they were briefed, it was packed to the gills with long, sleek gun cases and crates marked AMMUNITION in thick yellow letters.

 

Standing amid the boxes was an old man. White hair, impeccably groomed and with an imposing widow's peak. A huge – _huge –_ mustache, easily the biggest Taylor had ever seen, drooped to either side of his mouth. Green eyes beneath thick eyebrows and behind thicker glasses. He wore, of all things, a double-breasted suit. Very neat shoes, as well. And how weird had her life gotten that she thought a suit a more noteworthy clothing item than a spandex costume? Regardless, as she approached she could hear him grumbling under his breath at the clipboard in his hands. A clipboard, not a tablet. There was a pencil tucked into the clasp, and he fumbled at it with scarred, calloused fingers to make a notation on the grimy papers.

 

She stopped a respectable distance away and waited for him to notice her. Then she waited a bit more. Then she ran out of patience. “Excuse me?”

 

“Hm?” the man looked up, eyes huge behind his glasses. “Someone say something?”His voice was scratchy and hoarse. He took her in, and sniffed. “Oh. You. I suppose you're here to complain about my guns not having enough shiny buttons.  _ They _ –” and he pointed behind her to the troopers. “thought the bullets weren't big enough! Bah! Who hired those idiots!? Who trained them?! I was making guns before they were a disappointing quickie in the back seat of a car!” He stopped to take a breath, and Taylor sensed that if she didn't head him off now, she'd never get a word in. 

 

So she did something unthinkable a year past, and interrupted him. “No, I'm not here about that! I need ammunition for my pistol, and – ”

 

“Ammunition?” Like a bloodhound, his watery eyes focused on the gun riding at her hip. “Oh,  _ yes _ . This is more like it! Give it here, girl. Go on, give it!” She did, passing it over handle first. He grunted approval and lifted it to near touching his nose. “Yes, yes.  _ This _ is a classic. Magnum rounds, though I wonder how a stringbean like you could take the kick. Bah. Stay there –  _ stay, _ I'll be back with what you need.” She watched him shuffle off, still holding her pistol and grumbling. 

 

Then she stood around like a stump until he came back. It took a few minutes. He came out cradling her pistol, wheel opened, in the crook of one arm and a pair of small boxes under the other. Breathing slightly hard, he set the boxes down and began to fiddle with her pistol while completely ignoring her. This went on for several long,  _ long  _ seconds until the impatience and awkwardness overwhelmed her. “Sir, I –”

 

“Shh!” he held up a finger, then returned to whatever he was doing. “I'm almost done. This beauty was in need of some work. It looked like someone used it to hit things! Ha!” He straightened up with a satisfied exclamation. “And that's that! Here you are, girl. And enough ammunition to see you through the day. Don't let nobody say old Victor never did nothing for you. Now get, I got damnable paperwork to sort out. Go on, get!”

 

Taylor, after collecting her pistol and the boxes, got.

 

=+= Chapter 34: Teammates =+=

 

The time came and there they were, waiting for the door to open. It did, like a camera lens, each panel curling back into its housing and revealing a corridor. Long and windowless and stolid gray, it was lit by a single track set into the ceiling. Wide enough for three to walk side-by-side and, at the end, was another door with another pair of guards.

 

“It's time.” Narwhal stepped in, gesturing for them to follow. With a muttered word in a language Taylor didn't know, Spike almost rushed in. She was followed by Skjoldur and Foil, who moved at a much more leisurely pace. Taylor watched them for a moment, waiting for...something. It didn't come, so she set off after them. As they walked she saw panels, rectangular and horizontal, set into the walls at about head height. They started just inside the entrance and looked to stop just before the exit. Another defense mechanism? It wouldn't be surprising.

 

Narwhal reached the exit guards first. They nodded greetings and respect. She returned it and one of them asked, “What's your mission?”

 

“We're on the LVPD assignment. Marked to leave now.”

  
The guard nodded. “Yes ma'am. We'll make sure it's noted and get the door open. Should be clear, last sweep had a pack of...er, screamers...half a mile away and pushing east, towards an empty suburb.”

 

The second guard, who hadn't spoken, touched the side of his helmet and murmured “Open the exit.” too quiet for anyone but Taylor to pick up. She also heard the entrance hiss close far behind as the door before them began to open in the same way. The guards moved, turning to put their backs to them and raise their weapons. She saw sunlight, and a curiously shaped shadow, and the two troopers led them out. It was quiet. Cities should never be quiet, it felt _wrong._ They followed, and she felt a cool readiness fall upon her. She breathed the hot, dry air in deep and let it out slowly.

 

_Here we go_ , she thought. And so they did. 

 

=+= Chapter 34: Teammates =+=

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may have noticed a slight dip in the ol' update schedule. There are two reasons for that. First, I'm in the process of getting a job. Second, I rediscovered Skyrim. Both of which tend to cut into one's available time. Anyway. 
> 
> It continues to blow me away how much you guys like this story and how much damned fun it is to interact with you. It is, and always will be, a highlight of my day to read your comments and reply not nearly as much as I should. 
> 
> So...thank you. All of you. From the bottom of my heart.


	35. 'Neath a Desert Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a search party goes and finds exactly what they were looking for and are none too happy to find it.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun**

 

They walked down a suburb street devoid of life. Not just human life, _any_ of it. No calling birds, no buzzing insects, no barking dogs, nothing. It was the sort of utter silence that only existed in the prelude. In the moments before, building into an explosion of sound and fury. Narwhal was in the lead, standing on a flat pane of silver-blue, crystalline energy that floated along a few inches above the road. Spike and Skjoldur followed, he with shield in hand and she with helmet on. Foil walked behind and between them, sword out. She'd put up her hair in a bun, held in place by a steel hairpin. In a contrast to the others, Taylor wasn't actually _on_ the street. She was running the roofs of the cookie-cut houses. Scouting, and keeping a wary ear on the silence around them.

 

She pounded down one side of an A-frame roof, planted a foot on the lip and pushed off. Cleared the gap with ease and slid to a stop, cloak flaring behind her before coming to flap against her calves. This house had a weirdly shaped roof, a flat top with angled sides and an odd, Spanish mission style to the whole construction. She padded across the roof, boots falling silently on the clay shingles. Across the street the neighborhood came to an end, sprawling out into small office buildings, gas stations, grocery stores, and restaurants. They were all of them dark and empty. Some had broken windows, other missing doors. An SUV, tongues of fire licking out from beneath the warped and crumpled hood, had crunched into the metal pole of a stoplight before the driver fled. He'd dripped blood as he ran, a trail of dark, drying stains on the road before ending in a thick, gummy puddle on the double yellow line.

 

Dropping into a crouch, curling her gloved fingers around the lip of the roof, she focused her senses. She narrowed her eyes and _looked_. There, on the threshold of a gas station, its sliding doors twisted and broken, was another large dark stain. The missing windows of a cigar shop wept blood down the bricks in long, stick streams. Cars with missing doors, jagged edges stained. Windows and windshields splashed with arterial sprays. The signs were everywhere. People had died by the dozen, and yet...

 

Where were the bodies? There weren't even pieces. The evidence was everywhere, but not a single body to be found.

 

She inhaled deeply, focusing on the sweet-rot stench of death and decay. She found it blanketing the entire area like fog. Too thick to track. Damn. Nothing good came of missing bodies, not ever, and _especially_ not with these monsters. She growled in her throat and dropped off the roof, taking the fall with a flex of her knees. Then, she headed back to give her team the bad news.

 

It didn't go over well. It also wasn't a surprise, given how Narwhal nodded. Her eyes, forehead, and mouth formed a grim mask. “That matches up with the reports.”

 

Spike's voice rang deep and hollow from within her helmet. “So we find people alive, or we don't find them.” A grumbling, angry sigh. “Wonderful. Do we know where the bodies are taken?”

 

“The hive.” Narwhal, Foil, and Taylor answered simultaneously. After an exchange of startled glances, it was Narwhal who continued. “Our information states the bodies are taken there to be...changed. Broken down and rebuilt into what we've been fighting.”

 

Skjoldur, who was facing away from their little talk circle, spoke. “Smoke. Near our objective.”

 

Sure enough, a spire of gray-black fumes was twisting into the sky. A call to action, and to movement, for the five of them. One that was answered.

 

=+= Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun =+=

 

It was a car – a school bus, to be precise, a little less than six blocks from the police station. Torn to shreds and burning. Ribbons of yellow painted steel curled like peeled fruit rinds while tongues of orange-red licked and consumed the bus' cab. Glass, melted into a puddle and changed to semi-solid ooze, was all that remained of the windshield. The seats were beginning to light as they arrived, but not before Taylor saw them – cracked, brown false-leather soaked with blood. There were other scents, but the acrid stench of smoke overpowered them. As before, there were no bodies. “Spread out,” Narwhal gave a crisp series of orders. “Foil, check inside the bank. Skjoldur, go with her. Spike, you and Guardian go a block down the street and set up. We won't be more than ten minutes. If we take longer, come back ready to fight.”

 

There was a small prickle of resentment, a knee-jerk reaction to being told what to do that Taylor could easily acknowledge as being part of a Hunter's vicious independent streak and ignore. “We're on it.” she said, sharing a look with Spike, who nodded. They set off at a quick walk, giving the bus and its flames a wide berth. As they left, Narwhal rose into the air, carried by the pane of energy she'd been standing on the entire time. She moved to the center of the street, keeping away from the smoke, and started a slow spin while Foil and Skjoldur made their way into the building.

 

As she and Spike moved down the street, Taylor's hands drifted to her weapons. Curled around the hilt of her knife and the handle of her gun. The streets were quiet, save for the crackle of the burning bus behind them and the impact of Spike's boots. The buildings here were taller, more official. More sculpted concrete and tinted windows. Double doors either gone or hanging by hinges, revolving doors reduced to shattered panes and empty frames. Moving away from the wreck, the smell of smoke started to fade, allowing other scents to start filtering in. Smoke and blood behind, burning rubber and motor oil. Gunpowder, both ahead and behind. Exhaust from a diesel engine.Trails of stench, so strong as to almost be visible, hung in the air. Dozens of them, crossing and overlapping and intertwining. Each the path of a screamer, or a shooter, and utterly impossible to describe beyond that. They traced from the police station five blocks ahead to the bus, where they were lost in the smoke.

 

It was...unpleasant. To say the least.

 

After several moments of long, loud inhales, Spike noticed. “What are you doing?”

 

“Tracking. I've got good senses, so I'm trying to find out what I can.”

 

“Oh?” Curious, but not surprised. Maybe she'd met a cape with jacked up senses before? “What have you got?”

 

Taylor told her, including the theory she'd come up with. That the bus was a last ditch escape attempt, and a failed one. That the most likely place they'd come from was the police station. That they probably wouldn't have left anyone behind.

 

“So you think everyone's already dead.” It wasn't really a question.

 

Taylor nodded. Spike sighed.

 

“Great. I really hate these things.”

 

Taylor agreed.

 

There was a lot to hate about them. But nothing that couldn't also be applied to their creator. She'd never met nor seen Jamie Rinke, and found herself hating him anyway. Everything could be laid at his feet. All the people who had died. Everyone who was dying now to make more of the enemy. Everyone who would die because she and the others weren't in time to save them. It was like fire in her heart and ice in her blood, and the vicious, cruel corner of her mind filled with visions of a protracted, agonizing death for Rinke.

 

Yeah, this was probably hate.

 

The sound of two pairs of feet, moving at a fast walk, drew her from her angry, spiraling thoughts. Almost thankful for the opportunity for distraction, she turned and knew from seeing them she would not find it.

 

=+= Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun =+=

 

Foil looked like shit. Pale faced, sunken eyed, a streak of blood following her jaw up to her temple. No visible wound meant it wasn't hers. Her sword was in hand, dark red dripping down over her whitened knuckles to the ground. There was a tightness in her shoulders that brought shivers to the tendons in her neck. Her breathing varied between slow and measured and fast and panicked. There were some tears on her costume, and a chunk dug out of her vest. She didn't say a word, just moved past Taylor and stopped half a dozen paces down the street with her head bowed. Her shoulders started to shake.

 

Skjoldur looked as he had before. No blood, no tears. He seemed to be fine, but his _face_. It was like all the life had been drained from it. He too didn't say a word, just walked steadily towards Spike. “What the fuck happened?” She didn't sound angry, just confused and a little lost. He didn't answer, just folded his arms around her, armor and all, and breathed deeply.

 

Narwhal came last. If she had looked slightly inhuman before, there was nothing human about her now. The air around her crackled and whispered, fragments of crystalline energy winking in and out of existence at a rapid pace. Her eyes were solid blue slits, seemingly lit from within by sheer fury. “There were children on the bus,” was all she said. It was enough.

 

In that moment, Foil began to weep. Taylor turned away from Narwhal to touch the girl's shoulder. Gave a gentle squeeze. Her free hand came up to grip Taylor's. They stood there, a minute of silent memory and an unspoken eulogy. It was just a moment, not nearly enough time and all that they could offer.

 

Then Foil wiped her eyes, Skjoldur released his wife, and they moved on.

 

=+= Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun =+=

 

The first thing Taylor noticed, in contrast to earlier, was the presence of bodies. Screamers and shooters, almost a dozen of each, littered the front and lobby of the police station and oozed black ichor onto the scuffed tile floor. Empty shell casings littered the floors, islands among the black, in the thousand. Bullet holes filled corpses and left pockmark-holes in walls. A barricade of hastily stacked furniture had been put in front of the doors and smashed through. Splinters and fragments lay scattered and crunched under Spike's boots. Boxes of ammunition, flimsy and empty now, had been thrown around with impunity, those using them rather preoccupied with other things at the time. The bodies thinned as they moved towards the doors to the halls, one on either side of the entry desk. A vicious battle had been fought here, gunpowder thick and stinging and –

 

Wait. She stilled. Could she have – could it have been a trick? A desperate attempt by her brain to have one single spot of light in the mire that today was turning into?

 

No. There it was again. She almost cried. She almost laughed. She wanted to dance. But she settled for a smile, quick and bright.

 

Foil took notice. “What is it?”

 

Beyond the hallway doors, behind another barricade. The scrape of a shoe on tile floor. The in-and-out of men breathing. A whispered word. She said, “Survivors.” and then raised her voice. “Hello in there! We're with the Protectorate, please don't shoot us!”

 

Behind her, Spike's helm-covered head whipped around from where it had been studying the marked walls. “What – how do you know?”

 

“Thank you, God.” Narwhal murmured too quiet for most anyone to hear. Skjoldur simply grinned and gently rapped the knuckles of his free hand against his shield. A moment of silence stretched out, and Taylor heard more feet shuffling and the solid _thunk_ of metal meeting wood.

 

Then a voice. Cracking, wavering, projecting a casual sort of weary irritation. A man's voice. “Well, you guys took your damned time! We about won the whole thing for you!”

 

=+= Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun =+=

 

There were nine of them; eight police officers and an off-duty SWAT member who'd come in on their day off to teach some kind of health and safety course. All of them bore some kind of injury ranging from the minor – scrapes and bruises – to the not at all minor – a missing right hand. One of them had a broken leg, going from the splint-and-bracing on his right leg and how he leaned somewhat heavily on the man next to him. The floors were clear, empty boxes and spent shells swept into corners with a broom Taylor spied leaning on the left wall. A quartet of desks had been pushed together to make a loading table, atop which rested still-full boxes of cartridges and empty magazines waiting to be filled. The rest of the desks had been moved to make another barricade, built just on the inside of the room. Three officers stood in front of each door. Two stood in front of a third, with enough of a gap between them so as to give that third an opening to shoot through. The man with the broken leg and his human crutch were standing by the loading table. Between the two groups of three, and in front of that group of two, was the man who had called out. From the way the other eight looked to him – glances every few seconds, too quick to see unless someone was looking for it or was Taylor – he was the leader.

 

“Gonzalez, Smitty, Yu. Get that barricade out of the way so they can get through.” He gave the order, and the three troopers in front of Taylor and company hastened to comply. Well, not _hastened_ , she suspected they were a few hours of constant assault beyond that, but with commendable alacrity. It took the three of them two minutes or so to take the desks down and move them out of the way. Once the way was clear, Narwhal led them in, and it was clear that at least one of them knew who she was.

 

“Shit,” the broken-legged man had a rough voice, roughened by shouting and fatigue. “Narwhal's here? _Narwhal_?” He turned to the man next to him. “Told you this shit was bigger than some idiot Tinker.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you were right.” The man replied. “Happy?”

 

“Thrilled.”

 

The leader, who had a possibly stereotypical mustache, turned to the bantering duo. “Cut the shit, you two, and get to loading those mags. We're due some guests soon, and I don't want to be the kind of host who doesn't have anything for them!”

 

Taylor was about to ask what he meant, but was beaten to the punch by Narwhal. “Can you explain, Mr...?”

 

He grunted. “Name's Frank. And yeah, I can explain. Since two days ago, when this all started, we've been getting hit every two and a half hours by those things. It's been two hours since the last attack and a quarter hour less than that since we sent the bus out with the civilians and wounded, except Hardison over there. So if they keep to their schedule, and they have so far, we've got half an hour before they hit us again.”

 

The bus. The fucking _bus_. What was the right thing to do? Tell them, because they deserved to know? Don't, because they're hanging on by a thread and the slightest push could snap it? Or was there something else, something Taylor wasn't considering because –

 

Wait.

 

What was that? She went still, hands drifting to her knife and pistol. She didn't dare breathe, waiting to hear it again, to prove that her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.

 

“Something wrong?” Spike asked. Taylor shook her head, not in answer but dismissal.

 

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._

 

There. It was coming from beneath their feet. Taylor drew her weapons, Light racing down her arms to infuse them, and shouted, “They're coming up from below!”

  
Frank reacted immediately, reaching for his weapon and snarling an order. One that he was prevented from giving by the wooden floor in the center of the room, right underneath the loading table, exploding upwards in a howling blast of wood splinters and writhing horror. The battle for Las Vegas had been ongoing for some time, but for Taylor and company, it had just begun.

 

Finally.

 

=+= Chapter 35: 'Neath a Desert Sun =+=

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> Sorry. 
> 
> It's been a month since the last update, and that's not good. That's not good at all. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I CAN repeat a promise I made in some earlier notes: don't count this story out until you hear from me. I'll post a non-chapter telling you the story's been cancelled, or a comment on the latest chapter, or something. Smoke signals, if I have to. You WILL know. 
> 
> On a lighter note, I've been toying with some ideas on what my next story could be. The one I've been tossing about recently is a Game of Thrones and Assassin's Creed crossover. There's no details beyond that, but I find the idea intriguing. What do you guys think? 
> 
> Do not hesitate to comment, kudo, or bookmark. Your support keeps me wanting to write this and not fuck off to Guild Wars 2 or something.
> 
> Oh, yes. I do hope you had a very merry holiday, whichever one it is you celebrated. If you haven't celebrated one yet, put my well wishes in a box to be used later. They'll keep.


	36. Assault on Precinct 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Taylor receives a gentle reminder that one does not need superpowers to protect themselves.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 36: Assault on Precinct 13  
**

Taylor's legs bunched beneath her and she threw herself forward. Not into battle, but to reach the two officers who had been standing above the newly created hole. Even as she flew through the air she knew that the odds of their survival were low. That if the enemy didn't get them, the wooden shrapnel would. That all she was doing was opening herself to attack with no way to defend herself. But in her haste, impelled forward by instinct, she forgot about something. That is, some _one_.

 

Specifically, Narwhal.

 

Every single screamer boiling up through their dug tunnel _exploded_. With a wrenching sound of raw meat tearing they were torn to pieces from within by countless shards of blue crystalline energy. Steaming black ichor and long streamers of rough, pebbled skin sprayed in every direction in what could only be described as a storm of viscera and filth. Taylor punched through this storm, feeling both the heated impact of screamer blood on her costume, splattering like rain, and the somewhat weightier impact of two grown men. She hooked her arms around them as best she could, gripping hard as the transfer of momentum doing its level best to rip them from her grasp even as she used her legs to spin them so that she would hit the wall first.

 

Which she did, ramming a spiderweb crater into the concrete wall with a ferocious _crash_ and rain of gray dust. The two officers hit the ground below her, and she then fell on top of them a fraction of a second later. A groaning pile of aches, bruises and pain they were, only then noticing that they had landed in the neatly swept pile of debris. She rolled away and off the men she'd rescued, struggling with the rising panic and unique sensation of having the wind knocked out of her. She gasped in little breaths, each going no farther than her tongue it seemed, and finally managed to breathe just before Frank and Skjoldur reached them.

 

“That was very brave,” Skjoldur managed to sound chiding as he helped her to her feet, guiding her a little farther away so Frank could check on his men. She let him, largely because the world was spinning and partially because breathing hurt. Quite a bit. Fading fast, and enough to bring tears to her eyes. “I am glad to see you did not hurt yourself too badly.”

 

“Are...” Ow. Breathing deep enough to talk was still out of the question. She waved a hand behind her. He grasped her meaning well enough to answer.

 

“They're fine.” He measured her with a seasoned eye. “Well, no new injuries. Unlike you. Broken ribs, a concussion perhaps?”  


Spike wandered over, leaving Narwhal and Foil standing with the other officers around the hole. She gave Taylor the same appraising look her husband had just done. “You okay? Hell of a hit you just took.”

 

“Broken ribs.” Skjoldur informed her. Spike clicked her tongue, a curious sound coming from within a metal helm.

 

“That's rough shit. You a regenerator, or are we going to have to get you to a healer?”

 

Taylor was experiencing the sensation of her rib putting itself back together. Which was weird enough to be thoroughly distracting. The look on her face, equal parts confused and disturbed – it was _very_ weird – seemed to be answer enough, for Spike turned and went to offer her aid in getting the two dazed officers back upright. 'Aid' here meaning that she seized the pair of them by the belts and lifted them, one in each hand, to their feet.

 

“Well.” Narwhal had an air of invigoration about her after that. “That was certainly bracing. Now, Mr. Frank – ”

 

“Just Frank.” He answered with an air of distraction.

 

She continued around the interruption smoothly. “I think that now would be a very good time to get you and yours to the safe zone. Would you say that ten minutes is enough time to be ready to move?”

 

“We'll be ready in eight.” Frank then turned and began issuing a stream of orders. True to his word, eight minutes later they were ready to move. The officer with the broken leg, now dusted lightly with concrete, had retrieved a crutch from the station's first aid area. So, with Taylor in the lead, Narwhal in the middle with Foil, and Spike and Skjoldur bringing up the rear, they headed out into the city.

 

=+= Chapter 36: Assault on Precinct 13 =+=

 

Hampered by their numbers, the one wounded man, and a well-earned sense of paranoia, their progress was slow. Taylor could feel the noose tightening about their throats. She smelled them before she heard them, a sudden thickening of the enemy's uniquely wretched odor. She heard them, the brush of bone claws on concrete and asphalt and the rustle of many bodies moving, and did not wait to see them. Instead she turned on her heel and sprinted back towards the column.

 

She slid to a halt in front of Frank, who took one look at her expression and demanded only, “How long?”

 

“Seconds.” Her reply had only begun to register in the faces of those before her when a cacophony of screaming, screeching battle cries filled the air. She spun to face the way she'd come, hand falling to her knife, to see a tide of screamers come spilling around the corner.

 

“Spread out!” Frank's voice rang out, and his men hurried to follow the order. “Cover! Cover!”

 

Narwhal floated next to the hobbling officer, crutch thumping in one hand while the other held a black service pistol. She scooped him up to stand on her platform with her and carried him to the left side of the street. “Skjoldur!” She called over the din. “Assist the officers over there! Spike, Foil, and Guardian, take them out!”

 

“They'll be in our lines of fire!” Frank protested. “We won't be able to shoot!”

 

“Gunfire will only draw more of them! Let my people handle this!”

 

The tide was nearly upon them, mere dozens of feet and closing fast. Taylor had no intention of waiting for the discussion to end and darted forward, pulling her hand away from her knife and calling upon the black-violet void that lay within. Light coruscated down her arms, forming into a bow and pooling into the open palm of her respective hands. She slowed to create and set arrow to string which allowed Spike to thunder past, boots digging furrows in the asphalt, a berserk howl of gleeful rage echoing from her helm.

 

Taylor drew back the first arrow as Foil pulled even and loosed it as she passed. It passed over Spike's right shoulder and punched into the oncoming horde of screamers. The arrow detonated in a thick, sticky cloud tangling limbs and bodies and creating a knot of chaotic flailing that the rest of the horde flowed over and around. She formed a second and set it to string, calling out, “Foil, down!”, drawing back, and firing. Foil dove into a forward somersault as the arrow darted overhead and created a second such knot.

 

Around this time, Spike hit the front of the horde like a train. She tore into them in a spray of torn limbs, sprayed blood, and impacts so loud they sounded like cracks of thunder. She spread and swept her arms forward, a wide arcing move that did what the arrows had failed to do and stalled the horde's forward advance. Then she clapped her hands together, scything them through the torso of a trio of screamers who rushed abreast at her. She turned and drove her head through that of another screamer, while she lashed out with her fists and pulverized yet another two. She continued to battle, making wide, staggering blows, aiming to tie up the right flank as much as possible and doing a damned good job of it.

 

Taylor drew her third and final arrow and launched into the center of the horde a few seconds before Foil turned the left flank into a charnel house. Her blade flickering with whatever energy that rendered it capable to cutting anything, she folded up the front dozen or so screamers by virtue of separating their tops from their bottoms with a quartet of neat, precise, horizontal strikes. Two flicks took the heads of a pair of screamers in front of her, and she turned to the side as they fell, watching them pass by on either side. Her blade came back up and she began to – and here Taylor's vocabulary failed her – _dance_. It was almost hypnotic, the way Foil twirled and spun, using her legs to fight almost as much as her blade. Where Spike would let strikes bounce or slide off her, Foil dodged, parried, redirected. Under her direction, screamers killed each other nearly as much as she did.

 

Taylor's bow flickered once and vanished. She drew her knife, feeling the storm's Light rush through her, blinked through the remaining distance between her and the enemy, and struck with a clap of thunder.

 

=+= Chapter 36: Assault on Precinct 13 =+=

 

The last screamer, reduced to a gently drifting cloud of ash, had scarcely settled to the ground before one of the officers shouted “Behind us!”. Taylor spun around, heart pounding, to see a mob of screamers – this time supported by half a dozen shooters and a pair of the big shooters – come swarming out of a building down the street. They immediately sent a hail of violet plasma arcing over the heads of the charging screamers, forcing all but two of the officers to duck their heads down. The first officer was Frank, who stood in the middle of the street, rifle shouldered, scraping divots into the big ones' thick skulls with his bullets. The other, less fortunate officer was struck full in the chest by a shooter's blast. He had been wearing a vest, and this probably saved his life. The impact threw him back, sliding across asphalt for a few yards before coming to a stop. What followed was a frantic, breathless struggle to get the slowly dissolving vest off before the plasma ate through it and started in on him.

 

While the broken legged officer hobbled over to drag his fellow wounded into the false-marble alcove of a bank, the rest of the officers opened fire. Narwhal made a gesture, a jerk of her head, and an array of crystalline energy fields appeared in front of the officers in time to intercept a blast of plasma before winking out. Skjoldur stood behind the trio of officers, shield overhead to project a flat field of crimson light, angled down. Any shots that hit bounced off into the knot of oncoming screamers. Taylor looked between her, Spike, and Foil. Then to the approaching enemy.

 

Even at her fastest, she wouldn't make it in time. But that didn't mean she couldn't contribute. “Go!” she shouted, and Spike took off in great, bounding leaps that covered massive and inadequate lengths. She would get there soon, but not in time. Foil didn't follow, instead sheathing her sword and coming to stand next to Taylor, drawing a pair of short-handled blades. Taylor drew her pistol, funneling solar Light into it and feeling the power infuse every inch of the metal. Fire curled from the barrel. She lifted it, aimed, and fired. The bullet became a drill that cored through a score of screamers before exploding, taking out another six. Foil's blades, which did not waver or drop, simply _flowed_ through screamers as if they were water.

 

The officers on the left side of the street, the ones under Skjoldur's shield, saw to the shooters attacking them and set about thinning the ranks of screamers. They acted with precision and discipline and damn near folded up the left flank. Before that could happen, and before the screamers could close in and eviscerate them, the field of red fell in front to become a wall. A wall the screamers bounced off of and, like water, were funneled towards the center of the road. Frank swore loud enough to be heard over gunfire, quite an accomplishment, and darted off towards the right side of the road.

 

Over there was where the two wounded officers were being guarded by Narwhal and the third, healthy man. The difference in firepower was made up for by two things: the arrival of Frank, whose marksmanship seemed to improve the angrier he got, and Narwhal, who killed everything that managed to get within fifteen feet of her.

 

The second of Taylor's bullets hit the first of the newly redirected screamers, destroying it utterly before going on to hollow out the chest cavity of one of the two big shooters. Foil had another two knives that she used to great effect to separate the remaining smaller shooters from their lives. Around that time Spike landed in the middle of the street like a meteor and commenced mopping up the remaining screamers while the officers used a withering hail of concentrated gunfire to bring down the last big shooter.

 

Then it was done, and there was a very small, bloodthirsty part of Taylor that regretted it.

 

=+= Chapter 36: Assault on Precinct 13 =+=

 

They were only attacked once more during the rest of the journey – when a trio of new forms Taylor had never seen before tore their way out of the ruined shell of a coffee shop. They were like the big shooters, only their arms ended in massive, thick bone blades instead of the cannon. Faster than they looked, and exactly as strong as they appeared, they hit the middle of their little column and almost cut one of the officers in half. He was saved anything worse than a superficial wound by Spike driving her shoulder into its middle, bearing it _back_ into the shop from whence it came, and beating it to death with one of its arms.

 

Foil saw to another, the size, strength, and the sharpness of their blade irrelevant against someone they couldn't hit and who could cut anything she wanted at will.

 

Taylor took out the last by opening its spine with her crackling blade, causing the giant thing to fall apart into ash.

 

After that they proceeded unhindered, reaching the high school some time in the mid-afternoon. The officers had a moment of quiet triumph as they passed into safety; subdued smiles and pats on their fellows' backs. She could see them relax as they passed through the force field, the tension that had been tying them into knots easing. They were met by medics and a quartet of capes with a white sash tied around their arms, presumably denoting some sort of healing ability. Taylor was given to understand those were about as rare as hen's teeth.

 

“Come,” Narwhal said, “we need to make our reports. After, we'll be free to clean up and rest. I could use some food, myself.” She led them to the command tent, which had gotten substantially busier since they left. Troopers were coming and going in greater numbers, on occasion with one or more capes in tow. The babble of dozens of conversations drifted out from the open front, and Taylor could see the glow of dozens of computer screens from within the comparatively dim interior.

 

She smiled to see Lisa surrounded by a pair of screens, fingers flying over a keyboard and an intense look of concentration on her face. She didn't see Taylor, absorbed as she was in her task, and though Taylor felt a need to interrupt her girlfriend for a greatly desired hug, she refrained. There was no way of guessing what Lisa was up to, but if it was happening here it was more than likely to be important.

 

She didn't pay much attention to Narwhal's report. She was hungry and sweaty and tired. Her rib, though by and large healed, ached and she had bloodstains on her clothes – some of it was the rapidly evaporating black ichor, and some of it was not. From herself, from helping bind a few wounds, there were streaks of rust-red sinking in to the fabric and her skin.

 

Maybe later she'd think about the bus. About whatever it was that rattled Foil, Skjoldur and Narwhal so deeply. She _knew_ she'd dream about it. But for now...

 

For now she'd think about a shower, and finding whatever passed for food.

 

=+= Chapter 36: Assault on Precinct 13 =+=

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> I want to say that your thoughts (those of you that weighed in, anyway) on the subject of my crossover idea were appreciated. I'm probably not going to write that story, or indeed any involving Game of Thrones. It would be a work powered largely by contempt, and while I can hold a grudge as well as the next human, writing a story like that would be...exhausting. So I'm not doing that. 
> 
> I don't really know what my next project will be. Or if there's going to be one. I'll keep you guyz posted regardless. 
> 
> Please, don't hesitate to drop a kudo, comment, or bookmark. I can't tell you how much they are appreciated. Which might be ironic, given my profession.


	37. The Ebb and Flow of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things gear up for the Big Moment in Las Vegas.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle**

 

There was just enough time to clean up and get something to drink, and maybe a snack, before someone came looking for her. He was a uniformed trooper, helmet carried in hand, with a high-and-tight haircut he hadn't gotten entirely used to. Well, she thought so anyway, based on how he kept rubbing his head. He found her looking for a place to sit and polish off her snacks and failing. Having thus interrupted her, he then just sort of stood there.

 

“Can I...help you?” She asked. He startled, as if embarrassed, cleared his throat, and nodded.

 

“Yes, ma'am. Just – are you _that_ Guardian?” 

 

Taylor stared. “M – maybe? Which – How many – what are you talking about?”

 

“The Guardian who went into Prestonville, ma'am.” He explained in a rush, spilling his words out and looking like he thought she would interrupt at any moment. The she in question was too busy boggling at being called _ma'am_ by someone she was pretty sure was older than her. “The one who gave half the bounty back.” 

 

Clarity dawned. It didn't help with the wide-eyed, slack-jawed confusion she was dealing with. “Yes. Yes, that was me. And my partner.”

 

The trooper frowned. “Snitch? Uh, Insight? Holmes? Something like that?”

 

Taylor felt a small bubble of indignation at the idea that someone would forget Lisa. “ _Tattletale_ , yes.” 

 

He snapped his fingers. “ _That_ was it. For the life of me I couldn't remember. Sorry.” 

 

Another silence descended. It didn't last more than a few seconds, but those seconds dragged their heels. She thought she was done with awkward conversations. “So...why do you ask?”

 

Another startle. “Right! Um, my uncle – he was the guy in charge of the troopers who went in with you. He thinks really highly of you, and when I heard you were here and that someone needed to see you, I volunteered to be a runner. Ma'am.”

 

 

“Someone wants to see me?”

 

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am. You're wanted in the command tent.”

 

Her brows rose, surprise no doubt writ large on her face. “By who? And what for?”

 

“By Armsmaster, ma'am, and I don't know. Apparently I don't have the necessary clearance. Or any.”

 

The granola bars went into some vest pouches. She held onto the water. “Lead the way, Trooper...?”  
  


The trooper turned. “Blake, ma'am.”

 

“Lead on, Trooper Blake.”

 

“Yes, ma'am.”

 

=+= Chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle =+=

 

The command tent had picked up a thick tension since she'd last visited. All manner of official-looking business was still going on. People came and went with various bits of paperwork, men and women with headsets were tapping away at computers and tablets, and there were a great deal of radio headsets being spoken into. Running above all this was that tension, and an urgency of motion that – while previously present – had increased. Something had happened. Something big. Armsmaster and Lisa were standing over one of those cube projectors, currently displaying the map of the city she'd seen before. By the looks of them there was a discussion taking place. One that was clinging to civility by its fingertips.

 

Trooper Blake caught her by the elbow before she could enter. Well, not so much 'caught' as 'gently tapped' but he got her attention, so it probably all evened out in the wash. She turned to see his face go through a series of small, powerful emotions, of which she recognized only two. Anxiety and gratitude. “Yes?”

 

He swallowed, the motion hidden by the collar of his vest/breastplate, but there was no hiding sound. Not from her ears. “I just wanted to say, before you go – um – thank you.”

 

“What for?”

 

He shifted, weight moving from one foot to the other. “Well, I guess a lot of things, but mostly for bringing my uncle back.”

 

Oh. That was...that was really...something. “You're welcome?” She tried not to let it sound like a question.

 

Trooper Blake's radio came to life. Clean and crisp and loud enough for her to eavesdrop. She was polite enough not to. A few moments of terse, muttered conversation followed before he nodded affirmatively. “Yes, sir. On my way, sir.” Then, to her. “It was nice meeting you, ma'am. Good luck out there.” He offered a hand, which she took, and then _saluted her_ before leaving. She had to stand still for a moment and wait for the utter bewilderment to fade so she could move again. After that happened, she turned to go defuse the growing confrontation. Or make it worse.

 

Making her way towards the back of the tent, stepping out of the way of people as much as they stepped out of hers, gave her enough time to start piecing together what it was that Armsmaster and Lisa were arguing about. Because it wasn't a discussion anymore. No, this was an argument. A muted one, to their credit, but there were gestures and confrontational postures and a good deal of pointing. Armsmaster also had this stiffness to his posture that reminded Taylor of an angry cat.

 

She got there just as Lisa was finishing pointing out that, “...what's more, we have no way of telling whether or not it's a trap!”

 

Armsmaster's reply came with the kind of forced patience that came when someone was actually rather close to running out. He tapped the air near the projector cube, and the map changed to an overlay of the city with strange, fungal-like blooms of red and orange spread around the place. “Thermal scans show the highest concentrations of the enemy under the Bellagio, the Wynn and the Luxor. Our Thinkers indicate that not only do they not have the strategical capacity for deception – ” Lisa opened her mouth. He kept going. “– _on this level_ , but that it is more than likely they have concentrated their forces under the Bellagio.”

 

Lisa made a tiny, frustrated sound. “ _Your_ Thinkers are basing that decision on this one piece of information. We haven't given them enough time to go over anything else! There's witness reports, seismograph readings, drone video and pictures. There's so much more to go through. They just need more time!”

 

“We don't _have_ enough time!” There it was. The frustrated growl undercutting his voice. “They're replicating too quickly. We _have_ to strike now, and destroy the hive, before they reproduce in such numbers to overwhelm the quarantine.”

 

“Without more information, people are going to _die._ ” Lisa wasn't backing down. “People who wouldn't if we just gave the Thinkers more _time._ ”

 

“If we wait too long, it won't matter. We're already outnumbered, by then it will be too late. We'll be outfought and overrun.”

 

“I think,” Taylor drew their attention, snapping their heads over to her in an ironic unison. “that you wanted to see me, sir?”

 

“Yes.” Armsmaster's voice evened out, regaining the calm command she associated with him. “The situation is becoming...precarious. The enemy numbers are growing faster than we can cull them. The General that Director Costa Brown is liaising with recommends an immediate strike. She agreed, and passed down the order. In four hours time, six teams of three will conduct an infiltration and demolition attack on three primary targets. At the same time, the quarantine forces are going to conduct a unified push half a mile into the city.”

 

“So...” Taylor put two and two together and, wouldn't you know, came up with four. “You want me on one of those teams?”

 

“No. I, and by extension Director Piggot, want you to _lead_ one of these teams.”

 

=+= Chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle =+=

 

Okay, so maybe her math was bad. She looked to Lisa, who – out of spite, she suspected – shrugged. No help at all. There were so many reasons this was a bad idea that Taylor didn't know where to start her objections. That being said, she did come up with something. “I...I've never led anything before in my life. Why me?”

 

Armsmaster seemed to have expected the question. What she could see of his expression didn't change. “You, more than any parahuman here, have combat experience against the enemy. You have experience and ability in navigating their subterranean tunnels. You have proven yourself to be capable, reliable, and efficient.”

 

Well. That was...flattering? But still. “All good reasons to make me a _member_ of a team! Not leader.”

 

Over the course of the brief conversation Lisa's eyes, focused on the air between Taylor and Armsmaster, had gone wide. Then, narrow. “There's another reason.”

 

Armsmaster didn't even try to act like she hadn't worked it out. “That's not relevant to the discussion – ”

 

“I disagree.” Lisa drove over him. She didn't raise her voice, but harden it. “It's extremely relevant. They're giving you a team as a test. They want to see how you do in a leadership position.”

 

_Now_ Armsmaster's expression changed to a truly impressive frown. “I really think we should stay with what's in front of us.” 

 

“I agree.” Taylor found herself saying, although distantly, consumed as she was with equal parts confusion and worry. “So. Tell me why.”

 

Armsmaster growled. He was beat and he knew it. Which didn't mean he was going to spill the beans, as was evidenced by him saying, “It's. Not. Relevant.” Then he took a deep breath, turned a glare as impressive as his frown on Lisa. “And I'd appreciate you not undermining me in front of everyone.” Then back to Taylor. “Now, your team and objective are on this tablet. Study it like your life depends on it, because it does. Now if you'll excuse me.” At which point, he handed over the tablet and left the command tent.

 

“He really does have the personal skills of a robot.” Lisa's quiet grumbling came from Taylor's left.

 

“You didn't exactly rise above the situation, you know.” She kept her voice gentle, but the reproach Lisa clearly picked up was very real. She also had the decency to look embarrassed.

 

“Okay yes, I jumped into the argument ball pit. But that doesn't mean I was wrong. And I'm enough of an adult to see that he wasn't, either. I just – I just knew you were going to be part of the attack. So I figured that...the more detail we had, the safer you'd probably be.”

 

Taylor gave her a one-armed hug. Lisa leaned into it, resting her head against Taylor's shoulder and wrapping an arm around her waist. After a moment's quiet, she said, “You're sweet. A brat, but sweet.”

 

Lisa thumped her in the stomach with a free hand. “Shut up. Team leader.”

 

=+= chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle =+=

 

Taylor had commandeered a metal folding chair and an unobtrusive corner of the command tent. She nibbled on one of her granola bars to quiet the grumbling beast that was her stomach and reviewed the tablet she'd been given. For all of Lisa's misgivings about a lack of information, there was a hell of a lot to cover. More than she possibly could in the – she checked the clock on the city map – three hours before her mission departed. So she made damn sure she had the highlights down pat.

 

Her team – and didn't that give her a flutter of razor-winged butterflies, _her_ team – would be taken by helicopter to the roof of the Bellagio. They would be joined there by a second team and the six of them would move hard and fast through the building into the underground tunnels, find the hive, and destroy it using the lovely Tinkered explosives as provided by resident demolition experts and capes. According to the tablet, it was the design of an unholy union between a Tinker called Bakuda and the Army Corps of Engineers. Attached to the mission briefing were floor plans, likely tunnel entrance and exit points, several mapped routes, and estimated enemy strengths and positions. Also the times at which various parts of the mission were supposed to start. It was a fairly comprehensive piece of work.

 

As for her team...

  
Well, it was both good news and bad.

 

The good news was that one of them was a familiar face. Foil had, according again to the tablet's notes, insisted on being a member of Guardian's team. Taylor wasn't sure how to feel about that. The bad news was the third member of the team was a complete unknown. There weren't any notes for her to consult, just a name. Grace. Were they new to their powers? If so, what were they doing here, instead of somewhere safe to practice them? To make a long series of questions short: who were they and why were they on her team?

 

A few minutes of fiddling with the tablet answered none of her questions, so she put it aside and went to go pester someone until they talked. If it worked on her dad, she reasoned, there was nothing keeping it from working on a high ranking official with superpowers. Probably nothing. Of course, that proved harder to practice than she might have thought. With the scale of the upcoming operation, there weren't a whole lot of people just sitting around with nothing better to do than help her out. Pity.

 

It didn't sit right, having such a mystery on her hands. Especially when that mystery involved her team – gah, still weird – and she would soon be relying on this person to not get anyone killed. That being said, it was becoming increasingly clear that finding this mystery person would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.

 

So she cheated. She found somewhere near the middle of the camp, took a seat, and listened like she'd never listened before. She opened herself to a flood of sound, a hurricane wall of pure noise that over the course of a few minutes slowly sorted itself into something she could understand. What she was listening for was any mention of the word 'grace'. There was quite a bit of it. It took her a while to sort through the prayers, the adjectives, the band Three Day's Grace, and a whole bunch of other things until –

 

This. “...just not sure this is a good idea, Grace.” That was an older man's voice. Worried, stern, accented in a vaguely Asian manner.

 

“You've said that before.” A young woman. Smoky, hoarse. Like that girl Taylor had met once who had colic as a baby really bad. “I'm doing this, grandfa – uh, _Senior_. I have the ability to help, don't I? Doesn't that mean I should?”

 

_Found you_ . Taylor grinned in satisfaction. 

 

=+= Chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle =+=

 

Grace, it turned out, was a whipcord of muscle wrapped around a small tornado. When Taylor found her, she was doing pull ups on the tent bar while arguing with an old, white-haired gentleman. She had spiky black hair and pale, violet eyes that reflected the desert sun. When she saw Taylor coming she smiled, did another pull up, and then dropped to her feet. She was shorter than Taylor by a good six inches. “So,” she put her hands on her hips. “you're the one who's going to lead us through dire straits, huh?” 

 

“Looks that way.” Taylor looked beyond her to the old man, who didn't look all that happy. “He your partner?” 

 

Grace grinned cheerfully. “Nope.” The old man grumbled in what could have been Korean just as easily as it could have been Japanese or Chinese. “ But he thinks he's my conscience.” 

 

Taylor decided to skate right on ahead to the point. “So, since you're on my team, I –”

 

“Want to know my powers and why no one knows anything about me?” Grace finished.

 

“Well, yeah. Wouldn't you?”

 

“Yep!” There wasn't a time period where Grace was still, Taylor noticed. She was constantly doing _something_. Tapping her fingers, shifting her wait, bouncing on her toes. That last one went on for almost a minute while silence stretched between them. 

 

Then the old man said, “She wants you to tell her, girl. Do it.” 

 

Without looking away from Taylor, Grace pointed back at him. “Don't you 'girl' me, old man. I saved your butt out there and you owe me.” Then, to Taylor. “It's actually pretty simple. I got my powers when the whatever-they-ares attacked the city. I was here with the old man and while we were sneaking out, boom. Powers. I'm on your team because apparently what with all the injuries and...stuff, there just aren't enough people to go around anymore.” 

 

“Grace.” The old man said. She rolled her eyes. 

 

“Fine. I also volunteered. Good enough?” 

 

Probably not, Taylor thought to herself, but had long since become socially aware enough to keep it to herself. Also, there was a huge amount of things left unsaid. Still. She wouldn't be on the team if someone with a great deal of ability authority hadn't decided she was capable. There was one final mystery to solve, though. “Close. What are your powers?”

 

Grace looked especially proud of herself. “I'm basically the best ninja ever.” 

 

The old man groaned. “You're Chinese.” 

 

“So I'm the best _Chinese_ ninja ever.” 

 

The old man grumbled. 

 

=+= Chapter 37: The Ebb and Flow of Battle =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a month since I updated. Okay. 
> 
> Truth time. I've been feeling a bit burn-out lately on this story. Also, a bit, on writing in general, but mostly this story. I've been at it since February, 2016, after all. That's a long damn time. It wasn't that I was bored, necessarily, but that...I don't know. Fatigued? I was tired. 
> 
> I think, as much as the word in a fanfic context annoys me, that I needed a bit of a hiatus. Which I took. 
> 
> I'm still plugging away at this, but it's not as easy as it used to be, so the update speed might drop. Sorry about that. On the other hand, this story isn't dead until I say otherwise. Keep that in mind? 
> 
> Please. By all means, like, comment, kudo, and bookmark as it pleases you. You know by now it pleases me. See you guys soon.


	38. Into the Jaws of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle for Las Vegas has begun. The war against Nilbog continues.

**Guardian**

**A Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 38: Into the Jaws of Death**

 

This was how it started.

 

Eighteen people stood at the edges of a football field, dressed in ways ranging from the practical to the provocative to the profoundly absurd. In groups of three they milled about, quiet conversation and a thick tension combining to lend a near-vibrato to the air. Above them circled transports, a similar breed of unmanned vehicle to the ones that had brought them all to Vegas. Where those had been large, square arrangements, these were sleek and slender, quick like darting birds.

 

They would land soon, gathering the strike teams and ferrying them into the city. To be dropped deep into infested territory in a do-or-die attempt at destroying the hives before they could spread any further.

 

She was on one of these teams. Hell, she was  _ leading  _ one of these teams. There was a part of her that was stuck on that. It was...she couldn't think of a word to describe how out of her depth she felt, standing on the edge of that field. It was one thing to have her life at stake. She'd gotten used to that by now. Having  _ their  _ lives at stake, and under her control was another thing entirely. 

 

The transports began to descend. The wind of their descent pushed her cloak out behind her in a dramatic flare. One by one the teams stepped forward, boarded, and lifted off. From her tablet she knew that her team would be among the last to leave. Something about their target being closer.

 

To one side, Foil was a mess of knotted tension and anxiety. Whatever she had seen, combined with knowing that worse was to come had done the normally calm girl no favors. The muscles in her jaw were flexing, and she had a white-knuckle grip on her new weapon: an automatic crossbow. A sleek, angular thing in blue and gray, the canister of bolts was slotted just below the end of the weapon. A half dozen more canisters were looped around her waist on a belt. Her sword was still visible, and doubtless there was an assortment of knives somewhere on her person.

 

To the other, Grace was an expression of controlled fear. Here was someone who had just escaped the city, plagued by monsters at every turn, and then turned around to go back in. She was doing an admirable job holding herself still and steady, and it was only the clenched tremble in her fists that her internal battle could be seen. She didn't carry any weapons, and had found a stab vest somewhere and painted something in Chinese on it. 

 

Their transport landed and, after a moment of hesitation, Taylor started towards it. After a moment, she realized that they weren't following her. She stopped and turned back. Her cloak wrapped around her legs. This was the time she said something inspiring, yet comforting. To reassure them that they could do this. But her mouth was dry and her voice had abandoned her. All she could do was meet their eyes and try to communicate that.

 

What they saw must have been enough, because they started forward. First Grace, then Foil. The three of them boarded the transport, settling into the hard, carbon fiber seats, and were lifted into the sky.

 

=+= Chapter 38: Into The Jaws of Death =+=

 

They flew in silence for a few seconds before a calm, slightly digitized woman's voice filled the air. “ _ **Guardian, Foil, Grace, are you receiving?**_ ”

 

She had to consciously relax the muscles in her jaw enough to reply. “We are.”

 

“ _ **Good. Your time to arrival is two minutes and counting. Please open the case that is appearing now.**_ ” Sure enough, part of the floor rose into a square case roughly the size of her palm. She plucked it off the ground and ran a searching finger around for a latch or seam so she could open it. Eventually, she found a depression with her thumb and levered open the case. Inside, nestled in gray foam, were what looked like three earplugs.

 

“Are those radios?” Grace asked.

 

“ _ **They are. Each is tuned to your team frequency, which has been designated Vanguard-1. If you need to change frequencies, simply press your finger to the side of the device and say the frequency you wish to tune to. The other teams are Vanguard-2 through Vanguard-6, and the command frequency is Vanguard-Prime. One minute to landing.**_ ”

 

While that explanation had been delivered, Taylor had handed out the other two radios and fitted the remaining one to her ear. It fit perfectly and, to her surprise, she could still hear at her usual level.

 

“Should we test them?” Foil wondered aloud.

 

Taylor was about to respond when the woman did it for her. “ _ **You needn't, but feel welcome to. I can confirm that each radio is receiving and transmitting without fault.**_ ”

 

“ _Testing, testing. The baby squirrel is a sexy motherfucker._ ” Grace's lips moved, and her mumbled words came to Taylor's, and presumably Foil's, ear with perfect clarity. Then, at a speaking volume. “Did you guys hear that?”

 

After affirmative nods from everyone, silence returned. Forty seconds later, the transport touched down and the doors slid open. Foil went out first, crossbow leading the way, checking for anything to shoot. Taylor followed, brand new rifle in hand. Grace brought up the rear.

 

A moment later, the transport lifted off, leaving behind only a, “ _ **Good luck, Vanguard-1.**_ ”

 

Foil probably didn't intend anyone to hear it, but her radio picked up her voice as she whispered, “ _We're definitely going to need it._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 38: Into the Jaws of Death =+=

 

One of the first things that became clear in the seconds after stepping onto the roof of the Bellagio was that someone had tried to make this a safe place. Two doors led into the building, and both were barred and barricaded. A meager pile of supplies had been gathered in the shade of one of the giant air conditioning units: a few bottles of water, a half-empty first aid kid, what looked like a radio, and a few cans of spray paint. Beside the supplies, laid on the asphalt-and-gravel ground, was a makeshift spear. Nothing more than a pair of kitchen knives secured to a broomstick with electrical tape, it had seen clear and heavy use. Whoever this person was, they had made a clean escape and had a plan to signal for help. But there was no one here. She couldn't smell or hear or find any trace of movement or life. It was as empty and silent as the tunnel beneath Brockton. “ _Any signs of life?_ ” She kept her voice low. Just in case.

 

Grace, who had gone towards the rightmost of the two doors, responded first. “ _No._ Someone _was here, though. Where the hell did they go?_ ”

 

Foil's voice was terse. Tense. She had moved towards the left door and circled around it. “ _I think I have an idea. Get over here._ ”

 

“ _On my way_.” Taylor worked the lever on her new rifle and clicked in the safety stud. A few moments later and she saw what had put the tension in her teammate's voice. A gaping, jagged hole in the wall. Dust and fragments of cinder-block formed a sort of comet's tail, leading to the edge of the roof. Mixed in with that dust was the muddy, rust-brown taffy of congealed, drying blood. Then, on the raised lip of the roof, a hand print and two torn fingernails.

 

It didn't make sense. What was the survivor doing over here, away from their weapon and their supplies? What had made the enemy burst through here? Why had they thrown the survivor off the roof? _Had_ they?

 

It wasn't exactly why she was here, but...she wanted to know. The tenacity of this mysterious person had impressed her.

 

“So...they threw him off?” Grace asked. Foil shook her head.

 

“No. Look.” She stepped up to but a foot on the raised lip of the roof and pointed down over the edge. Taylor looked, and understood. Fifty feet down, more or less, was a patio covered in expensive looking deck furniture and glass-top tables. Nestled in the shattered remains of one of those tables was a pair of screamer corpses, the body of a middle-aged woman, her arms tangled around the necks of the screamers, and _most_ of a young boy. A thick trail of blood led from under the awning, framed on either side by the vague imprints of hands, clawed from the effort of moving. The trail ended at the boy's body.

 

“Fuck.” Grace's lip curled in a snarl. “Fucking...fuck.”

 

“That's why we're here.” Taylor's own voice came to her, as if from a distance. She could barely hear it over the roaring in her blood. “To keep this shit like this from happening.”

 

=+= Chapter 38: Into the Jaws of Death =+=

 

It was Grace who led them into the Bellagio. Grace who moved with absolute, utter silence through blood-soaked carpets and through shredded rooms. It was Grace who found the places where people tried to make their last stand; barricades of furniture and mattresses, hiding places tucked into corners. She found the places where they tried to fight back, turning conference rooms and gyms into battlefields. All were empty. All had failed. Each sight put another facet in the cold, clear diamond of hate and grief in Taylor's gut. She ached to race ahead, blade and gun alight, and kill every last one of them. Then go find more, and kill _them._ She wanted to kill and kill and kill until there wasn't a single enemy left. That way they couldn't hurt anyone else.

 

Eighteen floors, of the building's total thirty-six, went by like that. If the next eighteen were like that, Taylor was going to go insane. She was going to snap and release that murderous impulse crawling up the back of her throat. Luckily for her sanity and not for anything else, Grace – who'd slipped easily into the role of scout – found the enemy. She came back around the corner, shadows clinging to her and her feet making not a sound, and pointed the way she had come. “ _There's about twenty of them._ ” She spoke under her breath, so quietly as to be impossible to enunciate, and yet her words were clear.

 

Taylor whispered, “ _Show me_.” and gestured for Grace to do so. A minute of careful steps and controlled breathing led her to getting a clear view of their opponents. Or prey.

 

There were twenty-one of them, in fact. Five shooters, fifteen screamers, and one of the big blades. They were across the hallway from her, in one of the conference-room-turned-battlefields, and they were...sleeping? They weren't moving, whatever they were doing. The screamers were crouched, curled into fetal balls on the ground. The shooters were gathered around something on the floor, beneath Taylor's field of view. They were swaying slightly, but otherwise still. In contrast, the big blade was doing a slow orbit around its smaller comrades. Almost like it was watching over them. Beside her, Grace breathed, “ _How do you want to kill them?_ ”

 

Taylor wanted to kill them. Oh, did she. But, even if they didn't use any of their guns, the screamers would earn their name and alert every enemy in the building. Unless. “ _Grace, can you do what you did with your feet on a bigger scale?_ ”

 

Grace hummed _yes_.

 

Foil said, “ _Good. I'm with you, Guardian. Whatever you decide._ ”

 

Taylor's eyes darted around the room while her mind raced. Yes...yes, that could work. She touched Grace's shoulder and they retreated around the corner. “Okay, here's the plan: Grace, do your thing and make sure _no_ sound gets out. Foil, your priority is the shooters. There's only five of them, take 'em out. Leave the big one to me and then, mop up. Sound good?”

 

Her team nodded. Taylor breathed in. Breathed out. “Let's do it.”

 

=+= Chapter 38: Into the Jaws of Death =+=

 

The entire thing would play out in complete silence. That would the part she found weirdest, looking back. She couldn't hear the lightning flicker around and infuse her knife or the sound of her pounding feet or the snarl she felt rumbling up her throat and out through her twisted lips. She saw, rather than heard, the bolts from Foil's crossbow hiss past her. There were a half-dozen shots, and each of them sank home, snapping heads back and sending sprays of black ichor flying through the air.

 

As they began to fall, Taylor jumped. She curled her feet beneath her and hit the upper torso of the big blade like a cannonball. It staggered back, not as off-balance as she'd have liked, and began to swipe at her with its blade arm. She buried her knife between its burning green eyes to the hilt, then dragged it up over the pyramid of its skull and down to the back of its neck. The skull, carved in two, began to burn. The shooter corpses hit the ground. The screamers, now roused from their strange possible-slumber, rose as one. A quartet of crossbow bolts stitched across three of them. Two went down.

 

As the big blade began to fall, she jumped off of it and up. She felt the scrape of the ceiling on her back as she flung herself to the far side of the knot of screamers. Another two went down as she passed over them, twisting in the air to land lightly on her feet. Then she dove into the crowd, knife leading. Reverse-grip, it went up, taking out five. She spun the knife in her palm as it came across her body, killing two, and then brought it back down. Four went down, the bright edge carving through screamers like lights through fog.

  
Two left. One of them had a crossbow bolt protruding from its forehead. She snarled soundlessly and cut the top of its head off while Foil killed the other by riddling it with bolts.

 

Audio logs would later reveal a five second stretch of utter silence. Maintenance would be performed and would show the radios were functioning perfectly during this time, there was simply no sound to pick up. The conclusion meshed nicely with the powers and skill of the team in question. Twenty enemy casualties in five seconds.

 

Foil came to join Taylor, changing bolt canisters on her crossbow as she did. She slotted the new one in with halfway confident motions, like she'd practiced it but wasn't sure she'd practiced correctly, and discarded the empty one on the ground. She gave Taylor a thumbs up, which was returned. Grace followed a moment later, making a gathering gesture with her left hand. Sound returned to the world, every noise briefly deafening before settling back into the quiet mausoleum the Bellagio had become.

 

“Holy hell,” Grace sounded surprised. “and I thought _I_ was badass.” She looked around, taking in the aftermath of their skirmish. “They always this easy?”

 

“No.” Taylor figured that, as leader and the one with more experience fighting the enemy, she should answer. “We surprised them. All things being equal, they're more than a match for a human being.”

 

“Which is why,” Foil took over. “we never, ever, _ever_ let things be equal.” Her voice damn near hummed with the hatred she seemed to be learning for the enemy. Taylor could understand.

 

“Ambushes, tricks, misdirection.” Grace flashed a thumbs up. “Three of my favorite words.”

 

“Let's get to it.” Taylor said, and gestured for Grace to lead the way. And they descended towards the mouth of hell. Or the lobby. Whichever.

 

=+= Chapter 38: Into the Jaws of Death =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I suck at chapter summaries. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to do my level best to get the time between updates down from a month and a half to something a little more manageable. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, does anyone else think the 3DS, even the big one, is still too small? Because I can't play Monster Hunter for too long without getting some kind of carpal tunnel.


	39. Into the Mouth of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Las Vegas strike.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell**

 

The question had been percolating in the back of her mind after the ambush on the eighteenth floor. It had followed her down each flight of stairs, after the rasp of each overly-careful step. Where the _hell_ was all the enemy? The near-endless hordes, the virtual tides of screamers, the booming thunder of the big ones? It wasn't the silence or the growing heat that was ratcheting up the tension in her team. It was not knowing. Expecting an attack on every floor and not getting it. It was the blood and the stench of death and the _not fucking knowing_.

 

It almost came as a relief, then, to reach the lobby. If only for the sense of progress. They'd set up inside the door. Taylor had her rifle, a short lever-action of red, brown and gray, held in a tight grip. She was on the left side of the door. Foil had her crossbow, and had pressed herself to the wall on the right. Grace stood right in front of the door, barehanded.

 

This seeming absence of concern sharpened Taylor's whisper into a hiss. “ _The hell are you doing?! Get behind me!_ ”

 

Grace did not. She waved her hands at Taylor. “ _Trust me, I'll be fine. They won't see me until I want them to._ ”

 

She wanted to object. Make the argument that maybe the enemy were somehow able to see through whatever it was that made Grace hard to see. Then she remembered how Grace got her powers in the first place. She still didn't like it. To the point where it almost hurt to whisper, “ _Fine, but you vanish_ before _we open the door. Got it?_ ”

 

Grace smiled at her, tight and humorless. “ _Got it. Don't worry, I got this_.”

 

Taylor didn't think she'd worried this much in her life, and they hadn't even gotten to the bad part yet. She took a deep breath, then nodded. She saw her team settle in. “ _On three._ ” Foil nodded. Grace wavered slightly, like a mirage, then disappeared from every one of Taylor's senses. “ _One. Two. Three!_ ”

 

On three, Taylor strode forward and turned to face the door. Her cloak swirled out behind her as she mustered all of her strength and planted her boot in the middle of the solid, wood-and-metal door. It tore free of its hinges, fragments of screws flying like shrapnel through the air, and soared into the room. The instant the door cleared its frame, a watermelon sized ball of plasma hit her in the chest and exploded.

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

 

Her world swam back into focus, accompanied by the smell of smoke and foul, burning _something_ in addition to the high-pitched whine of her destroyed hearing. Seconds passed, and her sight cleared enough to see Foil empty a bolt canister into the lobby. Each fired dart had the unearthly black glow of being touched by her power. There was an angry red burn down one cheek, and a snarl contorted her lips.

 

The moment of deafness passed, and her hearing came back in a roar of incoming plasma and the atonal bellow of the enemy. She groped for her rifle, finding it lodged beneath her and twisted to pull it free. After that effort, it was easy to haul herself into cover and slump against the wall.

 

Foil ducked back to reload and saw that Taylor had moved. “You okay?!” She was shouting, almost screaming, but there was no need for silence anymore. The cat was well and truly out of the bag.

 

Taylor nodded and waved. Then she grit her teeth and heaved herself to her feet. The pain was extraordinary. Worse than anything she'd felt since reaching Vegas. Her skin _un_ burning itself, broken ribs stitching back together, it was...bad. The muscles in her jaw flexed as she worked the lever on her rifle.

 

_Breathe._

 

She did. Short, hissing breaths. Bracing breaths. She waited for the incoming fire to lull and, when it didn't, spun into the open frame.

 

The lobby was destroyed. Every piece of furniture was shattered and cleared out. They couldn't advance from cover to cover because there _was_ none. Further, the empty space wasn't so empty. It was crammed to bursting with the enemy. More than she'd ever seen in one place and they were, to a one, facing their direction. Even as she fired, working the rifle's lever as fast as she could and killing with every shot, she counted.

 

Fifty screamers. Twenty five and dwindling shooters. Another twenty five big shooters and twenty five big blades. Her rifle clicked dry and she ducked back as a blast of plasma scorched by, close enough to singe her eyebrows. “Where's Grace?!” she shouted over the roar of battle.

 

“In the room!” Foil screamed back. Then she ducked into frame to fire. The arms of her auto-crossbow worked in a blur of back-and-forth as they spat black, physics-ignoring bolts into the enemy. “She's on the radio!”

 

As she fed bullets into her rifle, Taylor called, “ _Grace! Talk to me!_ ”

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

 

Grace didn't respond.

 

Taylor slid the last bullet home, worked the lever, and waited for Foil to run out of bolts. A quartet of plasma comets, so close together as to look like one big one, scorched a furrow in Foil's hair as it passed overhead to detonate on the back wall. Heat washed over them, dry and nearly unbearable, but not harmful. Foil howled, a stream of vulgarity spilling from her lips, and ducked back into cover. She looked to Taylor. “Go!”

 

She went, spinning into the open door frame and dropping to a knee. As she dropped she fired and worked the lever, fired and worked the lever. Two shots, two kills. The first shot hit a screamer in its gaping maw and tore the back of its head off. The second hit a shooter's gun arm just as it was about to discharge. That was when Taylor found out what happened when that happened. The explosion vaporized the shooter and turned the half dozen screamers around it to charred, carbonized skeletons. The big blade nearby had its trio of eyes burned away. The pain and the rage drove it mad and it was bellowing loud enough to rattle her bones. It went berserk, striking all around it with blade and huge, clawed hand.

 

“ _Do that again!_ ” came Grace's voice in her ear.

 

“ _Grace?!_ ” Taylor growled as she tracked the big blade's flailing charge across the room, waiting until it closed on a pair of shooters flanked by six screamers. When it did, she put a bullet where the ear would be on a human being. It stumbled, maybe not dead, and plowed the eight smaller enemies into the ground. The pile began to convulse, as if they had suddenly turned on each other and were fighting. “ _What are you doing?! Get out of there!_ ”

 

Grace didn't respond again. Taylor wondered what the purpose of such incredible radios was if one-third of her team _didn't use it_ . If they survived this, she would be having _words_ with Grace. Strong ones.

 

She overcharged her next shots with Light, each one becoming a lance of spinning solar power. A brilliantly glowing dot, trailed by flame, that exploded magnificently on contact. With that, she ducked back into cover, calling to Foil, “You're up!”

 

As if she had been waiting for it, Foil turned into a firing position and commenced shooting. Black-hued death flew into the room, reaping a considerable amount of casualties before their imbuing faded.

 

While she reloaded Taylor chanced a peek at the enemy's numbers. What she saw was encouraging. There were still a considerable number of them, no mistake, but the number of shooters were dwindling, and _they_ were the big problem right now. She and Foil were working on that, Grace was in there doing...something. They could do this.

 

That was when the floor – _all_ of it – rumbled.

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

 

It was a curious thing, that rumbling. Both sound and sensation. The sound – like the enraged snarl of a mountain. The sensation – like an extremely localized earthquake. The false marble tiles of the lobby floor cracked and rattled. Loose tufts of stone shook violently. And – maybe she was imagining it, but...there was a _direction_ to the sound. Or a kind of motion. It started across the lobby, near the far wall, and ended not far from the staircase door.

 

“ _What was that?_ ” Grace asked.

 

The enemy had stopped. Moving, fighting, and if she wasn't paying _extremely_ close attention to them she'd swear they'd stopped breathing. Stillness. A lead ball settled in Taylor's stomach. She remembered the sewers back home, and the giant that had awaited her at the very bottom. Knowing she was too late, she screamed, “Get out of there!” and started to move. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she had to do something.

 

The floor collapsed.

 

It _buckled_ up, the inflexible floor turned flexible by overwhelming force. Screamers lost their footing by the dozen and slid, like sluicing water, in every direction. Shooters, the six left living, followed. The big ones, blades and shooters, managed with more grace, but they still came crashing down onto the pile of their smaller compatriots. The entire building shook, and the sound of shattering glass came distantly.

 

Then came the inverse. The dome fell around some _thing_ as it rose into the destroyed lobby. As it stood the debris of its entry dripped away, falling like water from a breaching whale. It was revealed in all its terrible glory, and Taylor was disheartened – to say the least – to learn that she had been right. This was another of the protector giants. This one was different. If she had to guess why, she'd say it was more _developed_. It stood taller, more upright in its posture. Its fetid, weeping pus cluster of eyes had been covered by a filmy skin material. Bone protruded from its shoulders, elbows, and knees like armor plates. It skull had a more human shape, and when it roared, it did so with a human-like mouth. It was considerably taller, to boot, its head scraping the tall ceilings while still half in the hole it had created.

 

Grace said, “ _God help us_.”

 

It wasn't a sentiment Taylor shared. Just as before, when she looked at it, all she could feel was hate. All she wanted was to fight and kill it. Her Light hummed beneath her skin, eager and bright. Her worries fell away, and she bared her teeth. Solar fire curled down her arm to the rifle in her hands, seeping into and _infusing_ it with a furious, orange glow.

 

“ _What do we do?_ ” Foil's voice was tight, controlled, but on the verge of dissolving into panic. “ _Guardian, what do we do?_ ”

 

Taylor didn't recognize her own voice when she snarled, “Take it out.”

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

 

The first of Taylor's Light infused bullets dug into the filmy skin over the giant's eye cluster and smoldered for a moment before winking out. The second one she aimed at its mouth, shattering a number of dripping fangs and shark-like, serrated teeth. It vanished down the gaping maw and, moments later, plumes of smoke issued from around its ruined teeth. Her third went into its elbow. Her hope was to destroy the joint or maybe even tear the arm off entirely, but this giant was even tougher than the one she'd faced. That wasn't to say it did no damage, it did plenty. Tore a great, burning hole in the meaty, cadaver pale skin and sprayed tissue and ichor all around the place.

 

The giant roared. Though it was less of that and more a wall of sound that exploded away from it and sent a sharp pain stabbing into her ears. After that, she heard nothing, and it took a few seconds to realize her eardrums had just been burst.

 

Foil followed her example and sent a glittering array of bolts that cut clean through the monster's flesh, leaving surprisingly small wounds to mark their passing. From the way the giant thrashed and swept its arms around, they had definitely left their mark. It then slammed one of its massive hands into the ground, sending tremors through the building, and reached towards their cover with the other.

 

If it were able to reach them, in this little space that had thus far kept them alive, Taylor suspected their fortunes would quickly turn. That, she couldn't allow. So she turned her aim to the looming palm and set about destroying the joints in the long, tapering claws that passed for fingers. It roared again – her hearing hadn't returned, but she felt the rumble in her chest – but didn't stop. She worked the lever, aimed at base of its palm, pulled the trigger, and – _click._

 

_Fuck!_

 

She dropped the rifle and quick-drew her pistol. A spike of pain in her head preceded the muted return of her hearing just in time for her to damage it again by putting six shots in an inch wide cluster right in the center of the base of its palm. She stepped back as she spun the cylinder out and rained spent brass on the floor.

 

That was when _something_ hit the giant's wrist with enough force to tear the hand clean off. The whatever-it-was had been heralded by a tearing, high-pitched scream that was in no way a natural sound. The meaty _rrrip_ , however, was. The giant recoiled, drawing its stump back and cradling it briefly against its chest. The motion was disturbingly human.

 

“ _Best Chinese ninja ever._ ” Grace panted into their radios. “ _Fuck, that took forever_.”

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

  
“ _Grace?!_ ” Disbelief or her partial deafness had Taylor shouting. “ _What the hell was th – where have you_ been _?!_ ”

 

“ _Is now really the best time to answer that?_ ” Grace asked.

 

“ _Fucking – get out of that room, Grace! Now!_ ”

 

The giant ended their brief conversation by trying to bring the stairwell down on top of them. As a way of flushing her and Foil out, it was brutally elegant. It also worked. A torrential downpour of bricks chased them out into the ruined lobby. Into the ruined lobby with the massed, smaller enemies and the giant.

 

Shit shit shit shit _shit_!

 

Now what?

 

Her brain spun in the scant seconds of peace and stillness that had followed. It wasn't a lot of time, but then there weren't a lot of options, so as Taylor turned to throw herself into the remaining horde of screamers, shooters, and big ones she drew and ignited her knife before screaming, “ _Foil, Grace, kill the big one!_ ”

 

“ _How?!_ ” Foil screamed back.

 

Grace answered, appearing for the first time since the battle started, standing about twenty to Foil's left. “ _Shoot it in the fucking head!_ ”

 

It went against every instinct she had to turn her back on the giant. Every microsecond she exposed her back to it she spent tensed for the claw to tear her apart. It didn't happen, and she dove into the knot of smaller enemies with a bright blade and a burning gun.

 

“ _Shoot it in the head._ ” Foil muttered as Taylor quickly turned her opponents into a cloud of ashes. “ _Of course._ ”

 

During the fight that followed she only caught glances as the members of her team killed the giant. It took them about the same amount of time to kill it as it did for her to finish and eventually, for the first time since entering the lobby, silence fell. It was over.

 

Taylor walked up to the corpse of the giant, reloading her pistol as she did, before sparking solar Light into the weapon and putting three shots into it. This time, the fire caught, and it began to burn without smoke or – thankfully – further stench.

 

“Holy shit.” Grace sounded both incredibly winded and impressed. “We did it. We actually did it.”

 

Foil shook her head tiredly. “All we did was reach the lobby. The mission is,” she pointed down the tunnel the giant had come from, created, or both. “down there.”

 

Taylor retrieved her rifle and fed the last bullets into it. She took a deep breath. “Okay. Vanguard-Prime.”

 

The synthesized female voice from earlier spoke, “ _Vanguard-Prime._ ”

 

“We've encountered heavy resistance, including one of the giant forms, but are proceeding on mission. Nobody's hurt.”

 

“ _Roger that, Vanguard-1. Proceed on mission._ ”

 

“We're on it.” Taylor then cued the radio back to her team by saying, “Vanguard-1...let's do this.”

 

And so they proceeded on and down. Into hell itself.

 

=+= Chapter 39: Into the Mouth of Hell =+=

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much sooner than a month and a half.
> 
> It occurred to me that those unfamiliar with Destiny may be unclear on what exactly everyone is fighting. To that end, I present the game-names and their corresponding story names. 
> 
> Thralls = Screamers
> 
> Acolytes = Shooters
> 
> Boomer Knight = Big Shooter 
> 
> Knight = Big Blade
> 
> Ogre = Giant. 
> 
> It also occurred to me that I should have done this a long, long time ago. So, sorry. But hey, if no one needed this, then it's all good.


	40. Rode the Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third and final part, one way or the other, of the Las Vegas strike.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 40: Rode the Brave**

 

_If I get out of this_ , Taylor thought as she huddled behind cover as violet plasma slowly melted it,  _I am going to get_ so  _many more guns_ . There was a time when that thought would have frightened her. She turned into a lull in the incoming fire and plugged a pair of screamers who got bold and rushed their position. She ducked back, chased by another wave of enemy fire. That time was long gone. 

 

Foil dropped to a crouch to fire around her cover, a rock outcropping slowly turning cherry-red from heat, and recoiled with a howled curse as a shot passed close enough to scorch the skin of her forehead. It was a sound of both pain and rage, and she screamed across the way, “I'm all right!” before sticking her automatic crossbow around the corner and firing blindly down the tunnel. With her power, and the sheer number of their enemies, there was no way she could miss.

 

Down the tunnel was their enemy. More importantly, their problem. It was a bottleneck. A  _fortified_ bottleneck. There were barricades made of pale, gray stone in front of a wall and, set into this wall, was a  _door_ . A fucking door. It was an open door, but that was making things worse. There were eight shooters making excellent use of the barricades keeping her and her team pinned down, and another four ducking in and out of the door-frame to support their fellows. Every minute or so, one or more screamers would make a mad dash down the long, open space between their cover and Taylor's. None had made it yet, but it was only a matter of time. The two she'd killed a moment ago had gotten the closest and had climbed over the dissolving bodies of their fallen counterparts to do so. 

 

Grace had, at the beginning of the firefight, tried to repeat her earlier trick of turning invisible and causing chaos among the enemy. A near-solid wall of purple flame had chased her back into cover, flat against the wall beside Taylor. She'd remained there since, twitching like she was creating and discarding ideas at rapid pace.

 

In short, a stalemate. One that could not continue. But how to break it, she wondered, without getting someone killed? Another set of screamers, three this time, made a spirited sprint quite some way before being quickly cut down by Foil's accurate fire. She wracked her brain, then turned to Grace, shouting. “Can you climb?!”

 

“What?!” It was harder to tell whether she was confused or just unable to hear. The battle was deafeningly loud. Gunfire, plasma explosions, endless screaming.

 

Taylor gestured. “The walls, the ceiling! Can you climb them?!”

 

Grace scanned the tunnel, eyes darting, before shaking her head. “No! Too smooth! I only need a little grip, but there's almost none!” She ran a hand down the smooth stone walls. “It's like it's been polished!”

 

_Or worn smooth by a giant_ , Taylor thought. She kept it to herself. So much for that idea.  _Come on_ , she chided herself,  _think. You're smarter than them._ Maybe she was, but the enemy had just plain outmaneuvered them, so unless they could find a way to blind them they were just shit out of luck. 

 

Something electric crawled down her spine. Blind them? Was it possible, with her bow?

 

There was nothing to lose from trying. “Foil!” she screamed. “Foil! Listen! I'm going to try and blind them! If it works, you and Grace charge them! Take the door! Got it?!”

 

Foil flashed a thumbs up. Grace nodded.

 

_Okay. Here goes_ . Taylor passed her rifle off to Grace, who cradled it as if were a bomb. Then she formed her bow, an arrow, and drew it back. “On three!” she shouted. “One! Two! Three!” 

 

=+= Chapter 40: Rode the Brave =+=

 

It worked.

 

More or less.

 

She wasn't sure what it was about the material her arrows were made of – Light or voidstuff or what – but when they detonated they erupted into confining, cloudy, tendrils. They looped and bound and blinded, enshrouding and snaring. The first arrow struck the center of the top of the frame and lashed out. The shooters and screamers – as one – emitted a bloodcurdling _shriek_ and began to flail around, as if in a panic. She put the second arrow to the right of the door, and the third to the right, to the same result.

 

Then she took off, hurling herself forward, digging the balls of her feet into the stone to reach greater speed. Her bow winked out, her knife drawn in a reverse grip. The blade began to crackle and leap with electric-blue light. Crossbow bolts, gleaming black, dart around her to find targets in the bunching crowd of enemy.

 

Grace was...somewhere.

 

Taylor leaped, curling her legs beneath her and _blinked_ into the crowd, landing feet first on the chest of a screamer. She bore it to the ground, rising to her feet. With her left hand she drew her pistol, shot the screamer in the head, and put her knife through the abdomen of the shooter to her immediate right. She stepped off the dead screamer as it fell to ash, shot another two screamers and planted her knife in the shoulder of a shooter.

 

The enemy retaliated. A trio of screamers, still clouded from the voidstuff her arrows were made of, slashed blindly at her. She spun, putting her back to the shooter's she had stabbed. It jerked as its fellows tore gouges into its body, then again as she put the barrel of her pistol against its back and fired three times. She planted her feet and _heaved_ backwards, then pivoted – tearing her knife free – into a spin. She carved a bright line through its midsection, tearing it in half, before charging through the cloud of ash to contend with the remaining two screamers. She used the last two rounds in her pistol to kill one, shooting it in the knee and then the head as it fell. The second one was shredded by a fusillade of bolts.

 

Her empty pistol went back into its holster. No time to reload. She threw herself through the door, dropping into a slide, and lashed out to her left as she passed through the door. Her blade cut through the leg of a shooter, taking it off at the knee. Then she spun into a crouch, cutting across herself to the right as she did. This time, she caught a screamer in the chest. With a quick, upwards cut she turned its chest cavity into a burning valley before it dissolved into ash. She pushed forward, rising as she did to catch the falling shooter in the face with her fist. Bone crunched, ichor flew. Its momentum reversed, flipping backwards over her arm.

 

A searing blast of heat passed within inches of her back. She spun, cloak flaring, to see the remaining two shooters finish getting a bead on her. One of their heads, suddenly, imploded. As if a great weight had fallen on it from an even greater height. Moments later the other was suddenly torn in half as it was struck by an invisible force. As silence fell for the first time in – was it really only _five fucking minutes? –_ she suspected that force had a name.

 

“Grace?” she hazarded.

 

There was a strange shimmer in the air, like a mirage appeared and vanished in the same second, and then the world's best Chinese ninja was standing with bloodied fists and a bent rifle. “See?” Grace panted. “Best in the world.”

 

=+= Chapter 40: Rode the Brave =+=

  
Taylor sagged. She was tired. More tired than she'd been in her life. It had been...how long? Ten minutes, _tops_ , since the fight to take the door? It felt like _hours,_ and every second harder than the last. Every fight since had been at their disadvantage. Numbers, positioning, every advantage the enemy could conjure, they used. And they were getting _smart_ about it. Mixed groups, with screamers to hold them in place while big shooters painted the area with massive plasma blasts. Obnoxious levels of cover for the enemy, and very little for them. 

 

They were still winning, her and her team, but the wounds were adding up and the supplies were running low. Grace, who hadn't had any weapons to begin with, had taken the worst of the damage. The clothing on her arms and legs was in tatters, stained with ichor and blood. A weeping gash in her thigh had been inexpertly bandaged by a strip torn from Taylor's cloak. Taylor herself had run about of bullets entirely in the last, grueling engagement, and she was feeling the beginnings of what she was starting to think of as 'Light exhaustion'. Foil had managed to come out the best of the three. She still had a canister-and-a-half of bolts left. Her injuries were largely superficial; burns, scrapes, bruises, and the like. Her face had gone hollow, pale and sunken. Taylor didn't know why. She _did_ know it wasn't good. 

 

It wasn't going to get any better. She took a deep breath and looked around at their latest victory. It was the landing above a spiraling path that went down, down, down into the depths. The path itself was was carved from brown stone and stained with all kinds of unknowable filth. Dotting the open edges were those strange, luminous crystals. It was a long way down and there was no safety net. The enemy they'd killed were slowly vanishing piles of ash around them. The darkness loomed around them, barely pushed away by the sickly, pale-green witchlight of those crystals. Of course, on top of that, there were the whispers. Soft mumbling sounds that were coming from everywhere, and on the verge of being words. Even Taylor's keen ears couldn't pick anything out. They'd started a while back and were doing an excellent job of freaking everyone the fuck out.

 

Not that she would let it show. Well, she didn't want to. It was up in the air about her pulling it off. She swallowed dryly, wishing for some water for what was far from the first time. Licked her lips, and with a hoarse, raspy voice, said, “Okay. Okay, we're getting close now. Won't be far to the hive. When we get there, we won't be able to stop until it's over.” She laughed, quiet and dry. “Which won't be all that different, I guess.”

 

“Yeah.” Grace contributed, voice tight with the effort of hiding her pain. She was leaning on the wall and pressing her palm against the bandage on her leg. “Gotta say, this hasn't been my favorite day.”

 

“Eh,” Foil made a solid effort at humor. Her sunken eyes really didn't help. “I've had worse.” It was good enough for them to share a small laugh at the top of the downward path. Then by unspoken agreement they moved forward and down. Down, down, down.

 

Into the hive.

=+= Chapter 40: Rode the Brave =+=

 

The path felt endless. The only sounds were those of their footsteps and the endless, sinister whispers. The only light source, the crystals. It was gloomy. Mist swirled around their feet as they descended. It was oppressive. The gaping darkness loomed in on them, pressing against them. Not quite a living thing, but a thing with more substance than a mere absence of light should have. As they progressed, the whispers grew louder. Almost to the point where they could be understood. There was a feeling, a suspicion, that if she ever  _ did _ hear the whispers, and understand them – that would be a very bad day. 

 

That being said, in comparison to having multitudes of monstrous creatures constantly trying to kill them, it was almost...nice. Well, for lack of a better word. It was peaceful, for sure, in the way a cemetery was peaceful. 

 

After an amount of time, they came to a landing. The air was, paradoxically, growing warmer and wetter as they went down. The stone beneath their feet was starting to grow slick, and darkening from a slate gray to a sticky, taffy-like black. It was familiar. She called a halt. They didn't have any food or water to share, so they just took a minute to breathe. Grace sat, favoring her wounded leg, and began unwinding the makeshift bandage. Taylor drew her knife and cut another bandage from her cloak, handing it over with an encouraging smile. With what she intended to be an encouraging smile. Grace took it, hefting it in salute, before starting to wind the fresh _ er  _ cloth around her slowly scabbing wound. 

 

Taylor moved over to Foil, who was standing at the edge of the landing, staring down over the edge in a contemplative manner. “Anything interesting?” 

 

Foil pointed. Roughly forty feet down, the path ended, emptying out into a wide, flat space. There was a dome in the center of the floor, made of a thick glass-like material. From within that dome came a strange, orange glow. It illuminated the scattered piles of bone and wet refuse in the room. It also did a good job of showing that there was a hole in wall across the floor from the dome. A big one. Big enough to fit a giant through. The more Taylor studied it, the more she was convinced: it was more door than hole. She was equally convinced that through it they would find the hive. Whether that was due to some instinct from her status as a Guardian or the fact that there was nowhere else to go, she couldn't say. 

 

Taylor turned to her team. “Time to go.” 

 

=+= Chapter 40: Rode the Brave =+=

 

It was a shame, really. To come so far only to die. It was morbid to think, she knew, but...circumstances called for it. They had gone through the door, down yet another tunnel – this one built with a level of sophistication that far surpassed anything the enemy had made before. Then they found it. The hive. An excavated cavern the size of a football field. Terraced escarpments leading down to a center stage. On that stage was the strange, floral-shape of the hive. The thick, petal-like walls had fallen, pooling and puddling and piling into a small of hill of fleshy horror. 

 

“Fuck me.” Foil breathed. Her grip on her blades had gone slack. 

 

Beside her, Grace nodded. “We survive this? I just might.”

 

Taylor didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her voice had fled at the sight before them. 

 

Circling the hive, heads swiveling like hounds on watch, were giants. Not one. No, they'd dealt with one before, and no matter how unpleasant it had been, they'd been able to defeat it. Not two. Two would have been bad enough, but just on the edge of what they were capable of. Not three. No. 

 

Four. 

 

Four giants, each larger than any she'd ever seen, were guarding this hive. Around their feet, scattering like water drops in a hail-battered pond, were big blades and shooters. Dozens of them. They circled the exposed hive. All of them, each and every one, from the pyramidal eyes of the blades to the fetid, weeping clusters of the giants, were glowing with a bright, venomous green. 

 

When Taylor and her team entered the hive, all movement ceased. The entire guarding force went still in the same moment, a feat of coordination beyond any separately thinking creature. All of those dreadful eyes were upon them. Utter silence had fallen. 

 

Then, an eruption of sound. The chamber rumbled with it, loose stones falling from the ceiling like rain. The ground beneath her boots hummed with the force of it. The sound would have struck her dumb with horror were she not already there. Why? Because it wasn't just sound. 

 

They were words. Two of them. 

 

“ **INTRUDERS! KILL!** ” 

 

=+= Chapter 40: Rode the Brave =+=

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc has been frustrating for me. It's been a struggle since the start of the story to find ways to keep the fights balanced. To have a real 'could go either way' feeling to them. That's a goal I don't think I've succeeded in. But this chapter and the next? They might be the closest I've come. For the record, I'm not upset. I'm perfectly happy with the way this story's turning out and how it's being written. 
> 
> I hope you guys are too. This whole effort doesn't amount to a hill of beans without you. But to paraphrase the great police officer Drebin, "This is our hill, and these are our beans." 
> 
> See you in the next chapter. It'll be around...soon. Ish.


	41. What The F*ck Was That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate moments of the battle for Las Vegas.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 41: What The F*ck Was That?**

 

The booming echoes of the fucking _words_ bounced off the smooth, stone walls. As one, the entire enemy force turned to face Taylor and her team. The sound faded, and nothing rose to replace it. Which was odd. By now, she expected to be halfway to deaf from the sound of screamers earning their name. They did not. They were completely, utterly, _eerily_ silent. All of them. Which wasn't to say there was complete silence. The sound of that many bodies, that many claws scraping against stone, the impact of four giant pairs of feet – the thunderous rasp of their presence filled the space their screams would have occupied. It was at this moment that she felt, in comparison, she preferred the screams.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Foil's sunken eyes were pits of shadow in the dim light. “They – it _talks_ now?”

 

“Let's talk about that after we don't get killed.” Grace, rather sensibly, was focused on the matter at hand. The smaller enemy forms began to move, flowing around the legs of the giants like river water around stones. Glimmers of purple light began to appear as the shooters, both big and small, began to charge up their arms. “Speaking of. Guardian. We have a plan?”

  
Taylor, her mind teeming, scanned the room as fast as she could. Her eyes flickering from one cropping of rock to another. Then back to the tunnel from whence they came. “Fall back. Use the tunnel to our advantage. Force them to cram in, backing up a few feet at a time. Then, assuming we're not all horribly killed, break through and deal with the giants.”

 

“Another tunnel crawl.” Grace shrugged. “Why not? They've worked so far.”

 

After a deep breath, Taylor ignited her knife. The enemy broke into a run, closing the distance at a rapid pace. Beside her, Foil took a shaky breath and drew a pair of her knives. The blades shone, infused from within by the black glow of her power. Grace slung her arm over Taylor's shoulder, taking most of the weight off her maimed leg.

 

“Go!” Taylor turned and half-carried her wounded team member back into the tunnel. They moved into the confined space, Foil throwing blades as she retreated. The ones she killed died in silence, crumbling to the ground with the same dissonant quiet they'd done everything else.

 

=+= Chapter 41: What the F*ck Was That? =+=

 

“This was a great plan, Guardian!” Foil's screams were bordering on hysterical. High pitched and thin. A very fragile thread, holding her back from plummeting over the edge into...something. Her blade was glowing, glimmering black, and scything through the charging scree of enemy with little effort. Truth be told, she was doing more than enough damage to hold her side of the tunnel. Grace, who was doing _something_ to fist sized rocks that propelled them forward loud enough to break the sound barrier, looked almost superfluous by comparison. “A great fucking plan!”

 

Taylor's decision whether or not to reply was made for her by a pair of screamers throwing themselves onto her in an attempt to bear her to the ground. The first went belly-first into her blade and writhed as it dissolved into ash. The second drove straight into her, sinking wicked talons through her shirt and into her ribs. They _scraped_ along the bone and drew an agonized scream from her. She pushed her knife arm through the block of ash containing it, stuck her blade in her attacker's waist, and cut it in half. She pulled its arms from her flesh, which felt _excruciating_ , so that the wounds could begin to heal, and then took her position again.

 

It was honestly the worst part of this fight. Well. One of them, maybe. It wasn't until she was prohibited from doing it that she realized how important movement was to her style of fighting. She was at her best when given room to _move_ , when she could dodge and run like she was supposed to. This...was not that. This was stand-your-ground, butcher's chopping block fighting. More like extermination than anything else. Exterminating things that wanted to and could kill the exterminator, so maybe the metaphor fell a bit flat, but it was the best her tired, aching brain could come up with.

 

She killed another six screamers before she realized their position was starting to become more trouble than it was worth. Her kills were creating clouds of ashen dust faster than they could disperse. Grace and Foil's kills were lumping together on the ground in a hard-to-navigate pitfall mound that was just begging for someone to step in and fall. Not to mention the slick of ichor that was covering most every surface. The point was, they needed to move, and soon.

 

But how? If they let up, if they moved back, if they gave ground in any way...it would be bad. Taylor wasn't gifted enough in the English language to describe how much, but it would likely end with them all dying and Las Vegas being overrun. So.

 

Bad.

 

What they needed, she decided, was time. A space wherein the enemy wasn't constantly attacking them so that they could retreat, set up, and be ready for when combat resumed. The riddle lay in creating that time. Luckily for her continued existence, she had an idea. Like all the best plans, it involved a sword. “Listen up!” Her throat was raw from screaming, but she was forced to so she could be heard. “Here's the plan!”

 

=+= Chapter 41: What the F*ck Was That? =+=

 

“Now!” Taylor screamed. After that, several things occurred, one right after the other. The first was that she planted her feet and plowed, knife leading, into the center of the tunnel. She used wide, sweeping strikes to clear her path and create enough room for the second thing. Foil dropped back, decapitating a pair of screamers with a flick of her wrist before tossing her sword forward. Then she wrapped an arm around Grace's waist and hauled ass further back towards the spiral path. Taylor caught the sword, spinning it was ease as the enemy plowed through the break she'd created.

 

Then, something strange happened. She could feel the Light of the storm traveling from her soul, down her arm, and into her knife. She was used to that sensation, the rush of wind that accompanied it every time. She could feel the void, black and endless and bright. She knew what _it_ felt like, when she drew upon it to create her bow. She even knew the Light of the sun. What it felt like when she channeled that into her pistol. To be fair, what she felt as the sword's hilt slapped into her palm wasn't all that different. She just never thought to try and use solar Light on anything other than a gun.

 

As it spun, the sword's blade caught fire. Bright, blue-orange flame licked down the sharp, ichor-stained metal, burning the thick black liquid away into a foul steam. The fury of the sun rushed through her, twining with the rage of the storm as she stood, a knife made of lightning in one hand and a sword wrought in flames in the other.

 

Time slowed for a moment. The faces of screamers distended weirdly, their toothy maws gaping in silent screams or efforts to bite her to pieces. Violet plasma flickered in the arm cannons of shooters. The green eyes of the big blades flared. Then, Taylor stopped waiting and _struck_.

 

=+= Chapter 41: What The F*ck Was That? =+=

 

_This_ was how she was meant to fight. She darted to the right, under the swiping arm of a big blade, and ran up the curve of the tunnel wall. One, two, three steps, and she pushed herself into a flip, arching her back to tumble over the second strike. She brought her feet in and landed in a crouch, swiping out with her new sword to take the big blade's legs off at its thick, segmented knees. As it fell she brought her knife around to carve through what passed for its neck. It collapsed to ash, burned by both the fire of the sun and the fury of the storm. She bulled through the drifting cloud, heralded by burning blades, and carved through another four shooters and a pair of screamers. More poured through the gap she created.

 

Instead of pushing forward, like every instinct _screamed_ at her to, she fell back. Threw herself blindly back down the tunnel. It was an awkward, ungainly maneuver. Her boots slid on treads made slick by effluvia and grime before finding purchase on cleaner, clearer stone. She bent her knees against her own impact, leaning forward to keep her balance centered. When her speed ran out, she looked up from her crouch to see that she was no more than a few feet from the rest of her team.

 

Grace was pale, sweating, glassy-eyed. Her bandage had bled through again. Her form kept... _flickering_...like she was trying to use her power in some way and failing. She was slumped against an outcropping of rock and though she gave a shaky-handed thumbs up when she saw Taylor, it was clear: she wasn't going anywhere. Foil was, by comparison, in better shape. There was still that shadow in her eyes, that something that had thus far escaped definition. Her injuries were minor, mostly bruises and scrapes, but at some point in the last half hour or so she'd acquired a long, nasty slash down her cheek that wept blood unchecked. She just looked at Taylor and said, keeping her face as still as possible, “Why is my sword on fire?”

 

“No time!” Taylor tossed the blade over to its owner. The moment the hilt left her hand, the blade extinguished. She returned her knife to its proper place in her right hand and set herself. “They're right behind me!”

 

As it turned out, they were a bit closer than 'right behind', which they proved by having a screamer headbutt her in the face while trying to tackle her to the ground and tear her stomach out. She snarled at the wash of pain and gutted the thing for its trouble, splitting it right up the middle with a wrench of her her knife's crackling, electric blade. She followed up by putting it through the face of a shooter that got a little too close for its own good and then crushing the throat of another screamer with a quick punch. A gleaming black sword flickered past and took its head off a second later.

 

Taylor felt a surge of energy. A rush of _we can do this_. She ducked and moved to the side as the sword came back overhead, separating another three screamers from their lives with contemptuous ease. The numbers were thinning. She could see the back of the horde. Just a little longer.

 

=+= Chapter 41: What The F*ck Was That? =+=

 

_Well_ , she thought as the last screamer dissolved to ash beneath her knife, _that's that part done._ If only there weren't four giants waiting for them on the other side of the tunnel. Compounding the issue – _issues –_ was the injury Foil had taken from a big blade just before the battle ended: her ankle had been broken. Which, by itself, didn't sound like a bad thing and wasn't. Given time to heal and a proper brace to set everything right, there would be no problems whatsoever. Right then and right there was a different story.

 

Grace had taken no further wounds, which was good. The ones she had were bad enough. Worsening by the moment, too. She'd stopped that strange _flickering_ thing and had started to shake. She was pale and glassy-eyed. Taylor wasn't an expert by any means, but she was pretty sure that Grace was either going or had gone into shock. Her team had effectively been gutted, with two of the three members out of commission.

 

She looked to Foil, sunken-faced and grimacing in pain. “Do you have any more knives?”

 

Foil blinked for a moment before the question seemed to register. She shook her head, stopped, patted her vest and pants, then shook her head again. After licking her lips and clearing her throat, she replied, “No, I must have used them all.”

 

“Okay.” Taylor chewed her lip. “Okay.” She touched the radio in her ear. “Vanguard-1 to Vanguard-Prime. Vanguard-1 to Vanguard-Prime. Do you hear me?”

 

No response. It figured. A ball of ice formed in her gut. That pretty well put paid to that idea. Which just left the absolute worst idea she had ever come up with. She sighed. It must have been a very communicative sigh, because Foil immediately set to protesting. “No. Guard – no. That is suicide!”

 

Taylor shrugged. “What other options do we have? Retreat? There's nowhere else to go. Vegas is falling. Call for help?” She paused. “Actually...okay. Here's what you're going to do: get Grace and get back up to the roof. Call for help and a ride out. I'm going to finish the mission and meet you up there. Got it?”

 

Foil shook her head. “That still ends up with you fighting _four_ of those fucking giant things. _Alone_.”

 

“I'm the only one of us who can.”

 

“I can't... _let_ you do this.”

 

“You're not. I'm ordering you to.”

 

There was more discussion, and it ended with Taylor walking down the tunnel alone. In one hand she carried a stormlit knife, and the other a sword on fire. Her tattered cloak swirled behind her and, though she couldn't see it, Light shone from behind her eyes.

 

=+= Chapter 41: What The F*ck Was That? =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought, because I am a very great fool, that I'd be ending this arc with this chapter. This happened instead. 
> 
> Bright side, next chapter should see our hero coming face to face with a huge fucking boss fight.
> 
> Anyone who says fight scenes are easy is lying. LYING. 
> 
> See you next time.


	42. Introducing...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice to put a face to the name, isn't it?

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 42: Introducing...**

 

As she walked, flames licking the gleaming steel in her hand, her heart began to race. Unbidden, her steps quickened. First to a jog, then into a sprint. Then beyond that, her world flickering as she _blinked_ forward, eating up twenty feet of tunnel at a time. Each _blink_ was followed by a sound of thunder, small and contained. As she charged, she bared her teeth. It wasn't a smile.

 

No.

 

Not a smile.

 

Not for these monsters.

 

Ahead, closing rapidly, was the hive cavern. Two tree-trunk thick legs braced it, streams of drool falling from above and out of sight. She knew how fast they were and that she was faster. Her Light flared, inside and out, and when she hit the knee of the giant she was as much comet as girl. She buried her knife into its rough, pebbled flesh, sawing it to and fro to get a nice, deep cut. More importantly; a nice, strong handhold. As the giant's claws slashed for her, its deafening bellow in her ears, she planted her foot on the protruding hilt and launched herself up. She passed a neck, thick with sinew and pulsing veins and lashed out with burning blade. It  _hissed_ as it cut, ichor and steam following the long blade's passing. 

 

Up she passed, out through the cloud of foul, toxic steam, and into the air above the giant. She saw the rest. Two were between her and the hive itself, standing still. Guard dogs. The third was advancing, tearing long gouges into the stone with its massive, talon-curved feet. Then she arched her back, turned over backwards in the air, and reversed her grip. The sword punched into the thick skull of the giant, gouting blood and flame as the creature roared in pain. She bore down, pushing with all her might and the meager weight of her body. Screamed as fire, the sun brought underground, roared around her. She felt the blade shifting in her hands. Changing. She grinned.

 

The giant began to tumble. Falling forward as its brain was cooked in its shell. She rode it down, somersaulting clear as the giant's bulk slammed into the ground with earth-rattling force. She rose from her crouch, dying flames in her clenched fists, and strode back to her sword. Wrenched it free.

 

_First of four_ , she thought. Then the second giant was upon her, swinging both arms down like clubs, powerful hands clenched to dash her against the stone. She dove forward and around, the ground rattling yet again from the force of its blow. They were fast. They were strong. It didn't matter. She was a Hunter. 

 

They were going to die.

 

=+= Chapter 42: Introducing...=+=

 

Her knife was freed from the dead giant's flesh with a hissing, crackling _squelch_ that ran unpleasantly against her sensitive hearing. She darted forward over the dissolving corpse, hearing and feeling the impact behind her as the second giant struck the body of its sibling in its latest effort at separating her from her life. She chanced a look over her shoulder to see that it had pulverized the remnants of the first giant's rib cage, then plowed through through the decaying halves after her.

 

Behind them both, the final two giants prowled around the heart of the hive. Their claws flexed and their jaws worked, but they did not leave their posts. Like the smaller enemy who had chased her into the tunnel, they were utterly silent.

 

Taylor halted, skidding to a halt and turning on her pursuer. The creature bellowed its battle cry and redoubled its charge. In turn, she charged, blades raised. Fire and lightning in her hands and in her soul and as the distance between them closed to the point she could see its hideous, multifaceted eyes rolling behind that cartilaginous shell she _blinked._

 

Behind the giant.

 

She spun on her heel and, for the first time in her life, _threw_ her knife. She could feel her Light stretching as the crackling blade spun away from her, bridging the gap between with gossamer strands of arcing fury. When it hit, it struck deep, burrowing into the flesh of the back of the giant's knee and – hopefully – damaging the thick tendon buried within. It bellowed, shaking the stone beneath her dashing feet with sheer _noise_ until she was leaping into the air, both hands on the hilt of her sword. The base of the creature's skull loomed. She could see the divot in its flesh where skull met spine.

 

And then she couldn't, because it had done the impossible and _caught her in its fist_. Her entire body, up to her armpits, was encompassed by its crushing grip. She could feel its fingers tightening around her body, steel rails twisting, _confining_. Caging. Her ribs cracked under the growing pressure, starbursts of pain flashing behind her eyes. Her arms were free, but she had no leverage. She was moving. Being carried to its gaping mouth. She saw teeth, serrated and cruel. She saw blackness. She saw her death.

 

Not fucking likely.

 

_Blink_ . 

 

_Into_ its mouth. Then she erupted, sword-first, out through the back of its skull. Blood and bone and fire trailed behind her, a gruesome comet's tail. She spun through the air, wetness flying from her body, and hit the ground. She slid to a stop, gasping for breath. Her wounds were horrendous. But they were healing. More pain. That was fine. She bared her teeth. 

 

_Second of four_ . 

 

=+= Chapter 42: Introducing... =+=

 

Time passed. She didn't know how long. Minutes, maybe. She could feel her wounds mending, the peculiar sensations that – more often than not – were rather more than just pain. Except for her eye. That wasn't peculiar at all. It just really fucking hurt. But it too was fading. She could feel the steady thunder of the last two giants on their patrol in the stone as she lay flat against it. They, and the labored gasps of her breathing, were the only sounds.

 

Eventually she managed to get back to her feet. Her armor (not really a costume anymore, was it?) was in tatters. Almost completely shredded. Her cloak was  _gone_ . Only the barest scraps of fabric clung gamely to her neck. She limped over to the dead giant –  _second of four_ – her mind whispered viciously, her knee popping and cracking and setting itself back where it belonged, and retrieved her knife. Then she paced back to in front of the tunnel entrance, spinning it pensively in her hand. Her sword, held in the other, had extinguished. 

 

The two giants mirrored her. She sheathed her knife, reached up her to neck, and tore the remnants of her cloak free before winding it around her hand. Why? She didn't know. In memoriam, maybe. She'd liked that cloak. Her knife came back out, and with an effort, she re-ignited her blades. Fire and lightning, once again.

 

“I don't suppose you'll just kill each other?” Her voice was hoarse, tired. Worn raw and neglected by her regeneration. The two giants were still. They did _not_ kill each other. She sighed. “I figured as much.” 

 

Then she charged.

 

_Third of four._

 

_Fourth of four._

 

Then it was over. Then it was _done_.

 

=+= Chapter 42: Introducing... =+=

 

The entire hive pad, roughly the size of a swimming pool, _quivered_ at her approach. It topped out at knee height for her, and beneath its rough, pebbled, hideous surface barely visible forms shifted and spun. She stopped for a moment, considering. Then she sheathed her knife, extinguishing its arcing brightness, and jumped up onto its surface. Ahead, in the direct center of the pad, bulged a twisted, tumorous growth. Covered in slime and dribbling holes, she knew for certain that this... _thing_...was what had spoken. The sight of it, of what it represented, sent a tremble of fear down her spine. Bad enough that this thing existed. Now it could speak.

 

Her sword burned bright and reassuring at her side, channeling the soothing fires of the sun. As she approached the... _growth,_ the flames licked up the blade, past the hilt and curled up her arm. Their heat did her no harm, but reached deep into wearied bones and eased their ache. The small column of drooling holes and tumors shivered as she closed in and then the entire pad shook as it spoke. **“YOU.”  
**

“Me.” She snarled back, fear and hate and anger burning lines of fire through her. Or was it her Light, carrying flame to the blade of her sword?

 

“ **THE WHISPERS SPOKE OF YOU** _ **.**_ ”

 

…

 

What?

 

Her fire guttered, blown down to nearly extinguished by a cold wind of confusion. The worming pillar shifted, a low, basso hum filling the air. It took her a long second of near-pure bewilderment to place the sound as _laughter_. After it subsided, the voice returned, “ **COULD IT BE THAT WE KNOW SOMETHING THE LOST LIGHT DOES NOT?** ”

 

_That_ sent crawling webs of electricity up her spine, alarm in its basest form. Her guard dropped. Not for long, but long enough for the question to escape her. “How do you know what I am?” 

 

The humming laughter again, shaking her down to her bones. “ **WERE YOU NOT LISTENING TO US, LITTLE LIGHT? THE** _**WHISPERS** _ **TOLD US. THEY SPOKE TO US, TOLD US MANY THINGS. HELPED US REACH FARTHER THAN WE EVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE. EVERYTHING THAT WE HAVE DONE, THE HEIGHTS OUR KINGDOM HAS REACHED, IS BECAUSE OF THEM.** ” 

 

Her fire, her Light, returned in a rush of hot air, a flare of solar fire. She pointed the blade at the worming pillar, letting her hate flow from behind snarl-curled lips. “The whispers tell you this was coming?”

 

Her sword, her fire, her Light rose and fell. With a hissing, screeching thunder at direct odds with the basso laughter, the worming pillar fell, parted neatly down the middle in a spray of foul steam and tumorous flesh. Then she stepped forward, spinning her blade over into an overhand grip, and drove it into the hive pad beneath her feet. Over the hiss of burnt flesh, the screech of a dying  _thing,_ and the rumbling crash of falling stone, she had one last message to deliver. “See you soon, Jaime.” 

 

=+= Chapter 42: Introducing... =+=

 

The trek back up to the rooftop was, to her mind,  _at least_ as long as the journey down. The whirring whisper of one of Dragon's unmanned helicopter transports heralded her appearance on the casino's roof. She stepped out into the dying desert sun, long fingers of pink and orange and red reaching across the sky. A squad of PRT troopers, heavily armed, turned at the sound of her boots scuffing on sun-heated asphalt, weapons snapping up to aim at her. She waved. “Hi.” 

 

“Stand down.” The center-most of the six waved his troopers down and moved to meet her, lifting the visor of his helmet as he did. The motion revealed a face; old, scarred, lined. A pale, dead eye gazed from beneath the scar that had killed it. He took her measure, gauging how she swayed on her feet, how her only visible armaments were a knife and a sword, and how she was almost completely covered in rust-colored blood and black, sticky ichor. “Rough time of it?”

 

Taylor huffed a laugh. Shook her head tiredly. “Nah. Cakewalk.” then, after a long, deep breath, luxuriating in the warmth of the sunset and fresh fucking air. “My team?”

 

“Recovered. They're both fine.” Her eyes stung, relief bringing tears where they weren't welcome. She closed them, squinting tight, wrestling for control. She gained it. Barely. “We're here for you, Guardian.”

 

She swallowed thickly. Waved a hand at the empty city around them. “What about...?”

 

The man grinned. “It's all over but the laughing. Fat lady's sung, Guardian. Mission success.” She bit down on her lower lip, eyes burning, throat tight. Words failed her. She could only nod. The man clapped her on the shoulder, full of reassurance and camaraderie. “Come on. Let's get you home.” He waited for her to nod before turning back to face his troops. “We're out of here, boys. Load up!” 

 

The man with the dead eye led her to the waiting transport. The troopers waited for her to get in before piling in around her. They chatted with each other, words washing over her, wrapping around her like a blanket. The doors remained open as they stepped into the sky, wind rushing over her. The hotel shrunk beneath them, then vanished from sight as the transport turned and flew out of the city.

 

_It's over,_ she thought.  _We did it._

 

Taylor put her face in her hands and started crying.

 

=+= Chapter 42: Introducing... =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> With this, we bring the Las Vegas arc to a close. Fucking finally. It was what, twelve chapters? Give or take? I didn't plan that. Eight, tops, I thought to myself. 
> 
> Nope. Not this story. Not this author.
> 
> I have no doubt that I managed to make a complete hash of this ending. Be sure to tell me in the comments. Or, if you disagree, tell me that. Also, if you feel like it, drop a kudo, or a bookmark. 
> 
> See you guys in the next chapter. In like a month, probably.


	43. Frankie Say Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's back home in the Bay. Nice and quiet. Kinda.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 43: Frankie Say Relax**

 

The room was dark. The action, beauty, and thrill of _Jurassic Park_ , made mute by the power of the remote control, cast the room into contrasts. Darkness, wherein rested the slumbering occupants of the room, and light, which those occupants hid from in their sleep. There were five of them, these slumbering souls, and one who was not. There was not a piece of furniture in this, the Hebert family living room, that went unoccupied. 

 

First. The patriarch. Danny Hebert himself. Perhaps it was stereotypical, but he had an armchair to himself. A brown recliner that had seen him through many a year. He was currently...reclining...in it. Socked feet up, a throw blanket draped over his upper body, head leaned back. His glasses were folded and safe in a shirt pocket. He snored gently. Soothingly, if such a thing could be said about a sound as obnoxious as that.

 

Sabah had claimed the loveseat and occupied it with the sort of cramped tenacity that could only be admired. She had, through no small means, managed to cram herself into the sofa's cushions and now resembled a koosh ball made of knees and elbows. In contrast to the man to her left, she did not snore. Instead, a small stream of drool issued from her open mouth where it was pressed against the pillow.

 

Moving right along. Foil, who was actually Lily, had come out of Las Vegas shaken, seeking the comfort of her oldest friend. Prudence Abernathy – the young, tech-savvy Indian man – had somehow managed to fall asleep sitting completely upright. Well. Perhaps not  _completely_ . He'd propped his head on an upraised fist, temple against knuckles. His other arm was draped solidly over Lily's middle. Before falling asleep, she had seemed to relish the contact. To Sabah's great jealousy. Lily herself had laid out on the rest of the couch, dropping her head solidly in Roo's – as he preferred to be called – lap. 

 

Upon the final couch were the final occupants of the shadowed living room. Both were stretched out across its length, and both were holding each other quite close. Lisa, white-blonde hair strewn madcap around, had pressed her face into the crook of the other's neck. Legs twined, arms tangled, it had been the work of a half hour to worm as close as possible to her girlfriend.

 

Speaking of. The last, and only waking, person in the room. Taylor held her girlfriend close and luxuriated in the warm presence. The rise and fall of her chest, the steady thunder of her heart. The scent of her – shampoo, deodorant, and Lisa – was a curious, compelling perfume. Taylor's eyes were closed, but she wasn't sleeping. She was...basking...she supposed, in this moment. This quiet, calm, peaceful moment. It was nice. It was really nice. 

 

=+= Chapter 43: Frankie Say Relax =+=

 

A week after the Battle for Las Vegas – as it had come to be known – Taylor found herself sitting at a table across from her girlfriend. Completely dumbfounded, and with no idea of how to proceed. The situation, unprecedented. Her wrong-footedness, complete. She was, in a word, baffled. Kind of resented it, as well. It wasn't fun to be baffled, and it was entirely Lisa's fault. It didn't help that she refused to stop smiling, all shiny and smug. Like she found the whole thing amusing. Through those teeth of hers, Taylor's traitorous girlfriend said, “I still can't believe you've never had Thai before.”

 

Maybe she was overreacting. As she stared at the laminated menu of heretofor unknown food items, she rather doubted it. “ _I_ can't believe you dragged me out of bed to come here.”

 

“Oh, don't be such a baby.”

 

“You actually dragged me. By my ankle. I was _sleeping_.”

 

“And now you're awake!” Another winning smile. Maybe it was the same one. Either way, Lisa was cheating. “So it all worked out.”

 

Taylor sighed, then glared over the top of her menu. “Someday, far in the future, I will find a way to make you pay for this.”

 

The smile turned wicked, teasing. “Promise?”

 

“Bet your shapely butt on it.” In turn, her own smile was almost sheepish. Part of her couldn't believe what she'd just said, out loud, in public. A much bigger part of her was aware of the fact that she'd fought hordes of evil, stinky, hate monsters and won, so her embarrassment could – to be frank – suck it.

 

Lisa's bright green eyes flashed, sparking with humor and pleasure. “So you did notice.”

 

Taylor nodded, chose a thing from the menu at random, and set it down. She crossed her arms over it and leaned on them, giving a sigh full of false-disappointment. “Yes. I'm actually only dating you for your butt.”

 

“I'm hurt.” Lisa pressed a hand to her chest, leaning back and pouting outrageously. “Wounded, even.” Then, “I'm only dating you for your legs.”

 

Then the nice waiter who had been standing next to their table decided he'd waited long enough and cleared his throat. It was an act of great will to not drop dead of shame. Or more likely, since there was no way she hadn't known, kill Lisa.

 

=+= Chapter 43: Frankie Say Relax =+=

 

It was very late. So late, it might as well be early. The kind of ethereal, witching-hour early that really only bore witness to illicit interludes, illegal intrusions, urgent calls to nature, or emotionally laden conversations. Due to the way the universe rolls its dice, it was the latter two that occurred to Taylor. First, a pressing desire to pee drove her from the warm, sleepy comfort of her bed – or perhaps the Lisa within it – to the bathroom. Her eyes were thick and heavy with the weight of still being mostly asleep. It went down to her bones, this half wakefulness. Followed her through her rote hand-washing and as she padded back down the hall to her bedroom.

 

Then she heard it. The scrape of wood on linoleum. The _clink_ of metal on ceramic. The sniffle of someone trying very hard not to cry. She knew that pretty well. Not so much recently, but there'd been a time. It woke her up, to be sure, and she headed down to the kitchen. The living room was dim, barely lit by the bright light over the dining room table. Sitting at that table, a steaming mug of coffee – Taylor could smell it – in front of her, was Lily. Lily, whose eyes were red and puffy. Lily, whose fingers shook where her hands wrapped around the mug. Lily, whose face was pale and sickly in the fluourescent light. Lily, whose voice was thick when she said “You may as well come out, Taylor.”

 

The joke came to her immediately. That she'd already gone and outed herself, but she just...couldn't make herself say it. Like, she'd suddenly become a very limited precongitive and knew – just _knew_ , that it wouldn't go over well. Or maybe it would. What did she know?

 

She didn't say that. What she _did_ do was walk over and sit opposite of Lily, sitting quietly for a moment before asking, “You okay?” Then she wanted to slap herself because _of course_ Lily wasn't. Maybe she should have gone with the gay joke instead. Was just as stupid, but nowhere near as inane.

 

Lily proceeded to lie her fucking face off, smile – kind of – and said, “I'm fine.”

 

Taylor didn't bother trying to hide her skepticism. She looked from the clock, displayed three am, to the still-obvious tremor in Lily's fingers, to the red in her eyes. “No you're not.”

 

Lily took a deep breath. Let it out. “No, really. I am. I just..couldn't sleep.”

 

“And you thought coffee would help?”

 

“It's tea.”

 

“It's coffee, I can smell it.”

 

Lily wrinkled her nose. “That's weird.”

 

“You have no idea. But really. What's wrong?”

 

Something like anger flashed through Lily's dark, shadowed eyes. “I said I'm _fine_. Leave it alone, Taylor.” Then she left her freshly made mug of coffee and vanished down the dark hall to the guest room, the door to which closed with a soft _click_. Taylor watched her go, exhaling a soft breath.

 

 

=+= Chapter 43: Frankie Say Relax =+=

 

Taylor had a chance to pull Roo aside the next day. Or rather, later that _same_ day. He was at the base, bent over an appropriated table covered with the guts of what looked to be a dozen different electronic devices. A pair of magnifying glasses were perched on his nose, and he deftly utilized a thin, narrow screwdriver and equally narrow set of needlenose pliers with great skill.

 

To be perfectly clear, she didn't _mean_ to sneak up on him. She just forgot to make noise as she walked up. Not a thing people had to consciously do, as a rule. But in the days since she'd returned from Vegas she'd noticed that, much like a cat, her feet fell without sound. So when she tapped him on the shoulder, it came as a complete surprise. He shrieked – actually shrieked, like a bat or a little girl – and toppled off his stool. The pliers and screwdriver went flying. He blinked up at her, owl-like, eyes made huge by the glasses.

 

She tried very hard not to laugh. Some giggles managed to bubble out alongside her words as she offered a hand to him and said, “Hey, Roo. How's it going?”

 

He glared up at her for a moment before accepting the help. He pulled the glasses off his face and scrubbed his hands over his face. His voice came out muffled. “Not bad. Mourning the loss of my dignity. You?”

 

“We'll light some candles for it later,” She solemnly promised, ruining it with a smile. She gestured to the table. “What's all this?”

 

“This, you terrible, terrible person, is the brand new security system for the – is it a lair, or a base? Whichever it is, these are gonna help keep it safe.” He pointed to one side of the table. “Cameras.” Then to the middle. “Motion detectors.” Finally, to the other side. “Control module. Hook that up to a laptop or...any computer, really, and you'll the new head of security for this...place.”

 

She scratched the side of her head. “I'm not too sure, but I think villains have lairs, and heroes have bases. That aside, this all looks – really impressive and really, really complicated. You sure you're not a Tinker?”

 

He nodded. “Pretty damn. I mean, this all looks like a mess, and it kinda is, but – it's not complicated, not really.”

 

Was it bad that she couldn't quite erase her doubt, or just a sign of how deeply involved she'd gotten in the parahuman...lifestyle, for lack of a better word? Still. She took the man at his word and got around to the meat of the matter. “Can – can I talk to you for a second? About Lily?”

 

Then she got to watch his face change as he cottoned on. Not defensive, necessarily, but concerned. Maybe even worried. He blew out a breath. “Yeah. Guess so.”

 

“How's she doing?”

 

“Bad. Better, but still pretty bad. I've tried to help, but...” He shrugged. “I'm an engineering major. She tell you what she saw?”

 

She shook her head. “I ran into her last night – early this morning. She wouldn't talk. Blew me off.”

 

He grimaced, fiddling with the screwdriver. “Yeah, she did that to me a few times. I...I don't know what you want me to tell you. I'm not gonna, like, go behind her back or anything.”  
  


“I don't want you to.” She assured him. “I just want her to be okay. Or maybe know that she's going to be. Like, I don't care if she doesn't talk to me so long as she's talking to _someone_. I've been in the 'don't talk to anyone about it' place and it was fucking awful, so...” she shrugged. “I don't want any of my friends to have to deal with that.”

 

“I understand. At least I think I do. Still,” he offered up a smile. “she's got us both. Even if she's only talking to me.”

 

She returned it. “All she has to do is say the word, and I'm pretty sure she'll have Sabah, too. In more ways than one.”

 

Roo laughed. “I'll be sure to tell her that. Be interesting to see what happens.”

 

“Yeah.” Her phone started ringing. Checked it – Lisa. She gave Roo an apologetic look. “Sorry. It's the girlfriend.” He waved her off and she paced a few feet away before answering. “Hey, beautiful. What's up?”

 

“ _I want to have sex with you. 'Sides that, not a lot._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 43: Frankie Say Relax =+=

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, I wonder where this cliffhanger is leading. 
> 
> I. Wonder. Where. 
> 
> Anyway. Yeah.
> 
> Comment, Kudo, Bookmark. I live for that shit. As you well know by now.


	44. Sex and Other Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a thing happens. It's even, on very rare occasions, the thing you intended to happen. 
> 
> That'll be the day.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 44: Sex and Other Drugs**

 

The entire fucking world came to a screeching halt.

 

It was...

 

She...

 

There wasn't...

 

Time passed. She didn't know how long she stood there while her brain had a complete breakdown. Roo was still fiddling with what would become the base's security system. She was aware of it with the same distance that she heard her heart thundering in her ears. Eventually, she managed a very strangled squeak. “You want to _what?_ ”

 

Lisa inhaled briskly, as if mustering her courage. Which was ridiculous. She who dropped sex bombs weren't allowed to be nervous. “ _I_ think  _I was pretty clear, babe. I want to get naked and go swimming. With you._ ” 

 

“No, I _got_ that, I just – I – I – I have no idea what to say right now.” 

 

“' _Yes' would be nice._ ” 

 

Taylor made an annoyed sound in her throat. “You  _know_ how I feel about – hang on.” Having become aware of where she was, she went into one of the other rooms and closed the door. There. Privacy achieved. “Okay. You  _know_ how I feel about you, and how much I like your uh...everything. I just, um...” Her hands were shaking. Why were her hands shaking? 

 

“ _...starting to think this was a terrible idea. Okay! Just, uh, forget I said anything. Guess I'll uh, see you later. So...yeah._ ” 

 

“Wait! Lisa! No, don't – !” Too late. Already hung up. She inhaled deeply, then blew it out through her nose. Then kicked the nearby wall for good measure. She glared angrily around the small room before deflating. She sighed again. “Fuck.”

 

What a mess. _So what are you gonna do to fix it,_ she asked herself?

 

She didn't know. But she sure as hell wasn't solving anything by staying in this closet.

 

Ha. Closet.

 

=+= Chapter 44: Sex and Other Drugs =+=

 

Come to think of it, she'd never actually _been_ to Lisa's apartment. She knew it was a result – a painful, awkward, uncomfortable result – of an attempt to repair the relationship between Lisa and her parents. In fact it had gone _so_ poorly that, years later, she still refused to talk in detail about it. Not that Taylor, _in any way_ , blamed her. Wasn't like she didn't have her own minefield of past pains. Even so there was a part of her, as she stared up at the faux-brownstone building, that wondered how things could have gotten so bad that an entire apartmentwas considered an appropriate apology gift.

 

She pushed through the front door and into a lobby that tried to combine opulence with minimalism and succeeded more with the latter than the former. Bare floors, black leather furniture, incomprehensible paintings on the walls. That kind of thing. A man in a suit stood behind a counter festooned with yet-to-be-retrieved packages. He was short, broad-shouldered, and bald. His nametag called him Sean, and he smiled professionally as she approached. “Hello! Welcome to the Prado. How can I help you?”

 

_The Prado?_ It clearly meant something, but Taylor was in no mood to figure it out. She tried on a smile and said, “Hi. I'm here to visit Lisa. Uh, Lisa Wilbourne?” 

 

Sean nodded. “Okay.” He went to the computer the wide-lipped counter had hidden and began to type. “What's your relationship with Miss Wilbourne?”

 

“I'm her girlfriend.” _I hope_ , she added silently. 

 

He nodded again before picking up a landline headset. She could hear the phone ringing and had to force herself not to listen. It was harder than it sounded. Ha. Sounded. She was full of these today. It wasn't at all an effort to distract herself from the fear burning away in her heart. Not one bit.

 

After a while, she was drawn from her efforts at  _not_ thinking about things by Sean. He handed her a guest pass and told her where the elevators were, and that if she'd leave the pass on the desk on her way out, he'd appreciate it, thanks. 

 

The elevator was waiting for her, the sixth floor button already lit. It carried her steadily upwards, droning pleasantly forgettable music through artfully hidden speakers. She drummed her fingers against her opposite wrist.

 

_You're here now, Taylor. What's next? You don't know? Great._

 

=+= Chapter 44: Sex and Other Drugs =+=

 

Something weird had happened. A small part of her asked _why exactly are you panicking_? She almost tripped over nothing from the depth of the spiral that innocuous, self-asked question sent her down. Why _was_ she panicking? Well, there was a very large concern that her relationship – one that she valued very, _very_ much – had just been torpedoed below the waterline.

 

But that wasn't it. That had happened _after_ she'd panicked, not before. So backtrack, then. She padded silently on the bare concrete floor of the hallway down to Lisa's door. It had started with the phone call. But why? She'd faced death at least a dozen times, gone face-to-face with monstrous creatures and broken many bones. Just, so many broken bones. So why would she panic at the thought of having sex? With her girlfriend, who she cared for very much and found _very_ attractive?

 

There was a notion, an idea to blame society. _Girls who put out are whores, girls who don't are prudes,_ that kind of thing. But she didn't think that was it. Or maybe not entirely it.

 

Then there was the before she became a Guardian. That part of her life she preferred not to think about. A lot of damage had been done to her, she was distant enough to be able to recognize that now. She had thought that she had healed. But maybe she hadn't? Not entirely? It could be that there was still a part of her that believed she didn't deserve to be loved.

 

It was frustrating, to not have the answer. That was lessened, though, by how she thought that she could _see_ the answer. Just the barest outline, a shadowed figure in a dark alley. She knocked on Lisa's door.

 

Footsteps from the other side. Drawing closer. She didn't have an answer. She didn't have a plan. She wondered what Lisa would look like, opening the door. Would her eyes spark with interest, maybe a touch of lust and some embarassment? Maybe she'd say something like, _sorry about that, I got a little too excited about the idea, how about we just make out for a few hours instead?_ Maybe she'd be wearing clothes that were kind of casual and all the more appealing for it?

 

Taylor was still panicking. But she was here.

 

Lisa opened the door. She _was_ wearing casual clothes, thick sweatpants and a hoodie. Her eyes, oh, her eyes, they were glassy and swollen. Red. Cheeks stained with tracks of salt. And then she said... _and then she said_ , “Are you here to break up with me?”

 

Taylor opened her mouth, then closed it. A sort of squeak came out in between those actions. Was – had she made Lisa; Confident, teasing, _sexy_ Lisa, her girlfriend, cry? Had she taken this person, this person she... _valued_...so very, very much, and reduced them to tears?

 

Oh, no.

 

No, no, no, no, no.

 

This was, to be blunt, un-fucking-acceptable.

 

=+= Chapter 44: Sex and Other Drugs =+=

 

Taylor Hebert knew what to do. She said, “No. _Fuck_ no.” and then kissed her girlfriend. One hand rested gently below the rise of Lisa's hips, the other curled around her cheek, thumb smoothing gently over her cheek and up to her temple. The kiss was slow and soft, a gentle slide of lips and soft breaths. It went on, drawing them into each other, creating a world of two where it was possible to say _I'm sorry_ without ever stopping a kiss. Where the shift of hands, from a shoulder to the back of a neck said _it's okay, so am I_. It went on, their own little world, building a hearthfire warmth between them.

 

Then it was done. Taylor's lips pulled away. Leaving the warmth. Their foreheads touched as Lisa looked up at her. Green eyes were clearer, calmer. Lisa licked her lips and smiled, small and hopeful. “I uh, I guess I should invite you in.”

 

Taylor grinned back, wide and goofy and burning. “Yeah.”

 

Lisa's apartment was...there. It existed. Taylor didn't notice a single detail of it. She remembered the warmth and presence of Lisa's hand in hers, the ghost-touch of Lisa's lips on hers, and the fire. There was a couch, which she noticed because she sat on it and immediately pulled Lisa into her lap, into her arms. It wasn't even to keep kissing her. Just. She just wanted to hold her girlfriend close for a bit. Luxuriate in the flame. Lisa curled into the touch, throwing her legs over Taylor's lap and pressing her nose into Taylor's throat, dropping a kiss in the hollow before sighing heavily. “I almost fucked this up.” Tension was bleeding, second by second, from her body.

 

Taylor kissed Lisa's white-blonde hair and lingered, breathing in her scent. She mumbled, “You could never fuck this up.” Then her lips curved upward, “Well, unless you really tried.”

 

Lisa grumbled. “I'll show you try.” Silence stretched out for half a minute, before, “I thought I was going to lose you.”

 

Taylor fessed up. “I don't know why I got so freaked out. I've been trying to figure it out, and I can't.” She kissed Lisa's hair again. “You're not going to lose me. I'm not going anywhere.” It was equal parts promise and declaration, given with all the intent she had.

 

“But you will.” Lisa's fear was quiet, mumbled into Taylor's neck. “Sooner or later, he'll hit another city, or they'll bring him down, and even if you win all of that, there's the next one. There's always gonna be a next one. And because you're you, you'll go. Every time. You'll keep going, and then one time – the last time – you won't come back.”

 

There were times, times that crept up on Taylor in the dark moments before sleep, when her brain brought up shameful thoughts and existential worries. In those times she would worry about what being made a Guardian had done to her. What it meant, how it had changed her. How she had looked at the trauma and the fear of the capes in Las Vegas and not had those feelings mirrored in herself. She'd been more scared of talking to all those capes beforehand than the battles itself. More scared of having a member of her team die than dying herself. She wished her Ghost was still alive, not just because she missed him, but also because he would have known what been changed within her.

 

She didn't know what to say. So she didn't say anything. She just brought her hand up to brush away the remnants of Lisa's tears and hold her close. Lisa caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm.

 

Then Taylor said something stupid. Something she hadn't intended to say. Yet. “I love you, Lisa.”

 

Her heart thundered in her chest, roaring with _I didn't mean to say that, but I don't regret it either_. Lisa twined their fingers together and lifted her head to smile up into Taylor's eyes. “I know.”

 

“You know?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“How?”

 

“First, you're entirely unsubtle. Worst poker face on the planet. Second, probably more importantly...I kinda love you too.”

 

Taylor grinned. The hearthfire heat banked, rising slow and inevitable between them. “Only kind of?”  
  


“Just shut up and kiss me.”

 

So she did.

 

=+= Chapter 44: Sex and Other Drugs =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh.
> 
> Surprise? 
> 
> In my opinion, this fits these two and their relationship a lot better than say, Taylor going "Sex? Shyeah!" and leaping across the city vagina-first into Lisa's bed. 
> 
> So. Agree? Disagree? Leave a comment. Leave a kudo. Bookmark it. Hell. Go crazy, do all three. Ain't no one gonna tell on you.


	45. First, Last, Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is what it feels like. Bliss. 
> 
> Not bad. Not too bad at all.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 45: First, Last, Only**

 

They were curled together on a very comfortable couch of fine suede. After the weight of their conversation, it was an unspoken agreement between the two to let the quiet drape over them like a quilt – warm and comforting. Well. Comforting, anyway. The heat was coming from somewhere else entirely. Them. Banked and rising with each moment spent in the arms of the other. Gestures of comfort and affection, like Taylor's hand on the back of Lisa's neck or how Lisa had her hand flattened on Taylor's chest above her heart, slowly changed into something else.

 

Something _more_. 

 

Likewise, the small kisses they'd been trading, passing back and forth with little smiles or hushed laughs, went and changed on them. With each one, they grew deeper, lasted longer. Grew hotter. With each kiss their positions changed until Lisa was straddling Taylor, arms wrapped around her neck and crushing the pair of them together. Taylor could feel her girlfriend's breasts pressed against hers, found that she liked the sensation, and liked even more the crackling it sent down her spine.

 

She curled her hand around Lisa's neck and tangled her fingers in long, white-blonde hair. Her other she placed, with neither shame or regret, on her girlfriend's ass and tugged. Rocking her hips forward into Taylor's own and causing something like fire to bloom in her belly. Lisa smiled into their kiss and set to a slow, ceaseless roll. Pressing, grinding, sliding forward, then back. Forward, then back. Each movement, each motion, fueled the fire. It curled around her body, loosening her limbs and emboldening her to the point she had no insecurities about pushing Lisa back far enough to pull her shirt over her head.

 

Lisa's eyes darkened and she hissed inwards. Her hands traveled from now bare shoulders down, sliding between Taylor's breasts to the smooth, muscled skin of her stomach. Oddly, it was then that Taylor noticed something about herself. She had abs. Like, a six-pack. And Lisa was running the tips of her fingers over them, tracing them and staring at Taylor's shirtless form like it was...she didn't know.

 

Then Lisa shuddered, from the tip of her skull down. Her eyes closed for a moment and, when they opened again, held within a mirror to the flame purling in Taylor's stomach. Then she lifted Taylor's hand to her shirt and grinned.

 

Taylor grinned back, and damn near tore her girlfriend's shirt off.

 

=+= Chapter 45: First, Last, Only =+=

 

The hearthfire warmth that had brought them this far turned to hellfire under their kisses. She'd kissed Lisa many times, and in many ways. Never like this. Something in the tangle and slide of their tongues, the occasional _clack_ of their colliding teeth, the press and press again of swollen lips against each other. Through it all their hips rolled. Rose and lowered and pushed. Each motion, each moment impelling them onward.

 

Taylor pulled her hand away from the curve of Lisa's ass and slid it up the heated flesh of her side, brushing against and over the band of her bra to curl into and pull down the cup, revealing the pale, perfect breast beneath. Lisa's free hand curled around her wrist, guiding her hand up to cup that softness in her palm. She felt the gradual rise of a nipple beneath her hand and took it between her fingers, rolling it and gently pinching it, encouraged by the sounds Lisa was making. The whimpers into Taylor's mouth, the sharp inhales through her nose. It was pure sin and sex, decadence and she wanted more.

 

“More.” She said between kisses. Lisa took her hand from Taylor's wrist and rested it above her own, still covered, breasts. She also broke their kiss, which was very sad.

 

“More?” Lisa's voice was throaty, teasing. Full of heat. Taylor continued to roll her nipple between her fingers. Their hips continued their rocking, slow roll. But that was changing, growing faster, more urgent and needful. Like they were seeking something together.

 

Taylor nodded. “More.” She had the sudden desire to pull Lisa's nipple between her lips. Maybe the whole breast. See what happened. That desire was... _postponed_...by her girlfriend's hand diving beneath her bra and proceeding to mimic with her fingers what Taylor had been, and was still, doing.

 

It felt...at first, it felt strange. To be touched in such an intimate place by someone besides her. That faded fast, to be replaced by what felt like lightning. Shocks and tingles danced down her nerves. It wasn't the heat growing in her belly, or even the burning in her blood. But it was as good as. It made her brain crooked and hard to think anything beyond _more_.

 

Lisa reached behind her back, flicking the hooks of her bra free and baring herself to Taylor, who reached for this newly exposed flesh with an eager grin. _More._

 

Taylor's own bra was pushed down after Lisa failed to worm her hand between Taylor's body and the couch. She covered Taylor's breasts with her hands and began to pluck, roll, and pull gently at Taylor's nipples. _More_.

 

=+= Chapter 45: First, Last, Only =+=

 

Taylor felt a rush, heady and powerful, at the sight of Lisa beneath – _between –_ her legs. At the sounds Lisa made as she explored the peaks and valleys of her girlfriend's body with her mouth, dragging open-mouted kisses across long stretches of heated, sweat-dappled skin. She reached the curve of a hip and sucked hard, earning a flicked ear in retaliation for what was sure to be a bruise. She grinned up to see Lisa's halfhearted glare. “What?”

 

Lisa rolled her eyes and fisted a hand in Taylor's hair, tugging her up for a long, deep kiss. Against her lips, Lisa murmured, “Don't ' _what?_ ' me. Not when you're doing – doing _that_.” What was Taylor doing? Indulging an earlier desire and rolling peaked, swollen nipples between her teeth with her tongue. It _had_ involved moving away from very kissable lips, but her sacrifice was worth it. Lisa's back arched, shameless, artless, pushing her breast deeper into Taylor's mouth. In vengeance, or retaliation, she dove her hands down the back of Taylor's pants to palm the smooth, muscled curve of the naked ass that hid within.

 

Taylor gasped as her body was kneaded beneath strong, sure fingers. Her hips jerked forward, driving one of Lisa's legs between her own. The motion touched off fireworks. No, explosions. Pleasure so intense it stole the breath from her lungs and the sight from her eyes. She wanted – no, _needed_ – to feel that again. She panted, harsh and quick, into the graceful curve of Lisa's neck as she rolled her hips forward, grinding the very core of herself on Lisa's smooth, firm leg. Lisa held a hand behind her neck, another at the base of her spine, encouraging her, whispering into her ear such filthy things that sent jolts of lightning down her spine. “ _this is the hottest fucking thing in the entire world, god you are pure sex baby I swear I want to rip your clothes off and make you_ scream _and then let you do it to me._ ”

 

On it went. Lisa dug her heel into the arm of the couch and lifted her knee, giving Taylor something harder to push herself into. Hands, clever, clever hands, traveled her heated, sweating skin, pausing to roll _unbelievably_ sensitive nipples between nimble fingers. All the while a stream of quiet vulgarity entered her ears and set her nerves alight. It turned out that Taylor liked dirty talk. Quite a bit.

 

It was as if there was a length of wire inside her. Each motion, each word, each rock of her lamentably clothed hips stretched that wire tighter. Tighter and tighter until she could feel it, actually feel the tightening in her spine, the heat pooling between her legs.

 

And then.

 

And then.

 

Taylor lay, gasping and swearing, atop Lisa. “Holy fucking shit.” She managed to say. “I bet that's even better naked.”

 

Lisa's hands lifted her head up gaze into her eyes and kiss her. Softly. Gently. Lisa smiled. “Let's find out.”

 

=+= Chapter 45: First, Last, Only =+=

 

The bed had silk sheets. Silk, she decided, was her second favorite thing to feel against her naked, sensitive skin. The first was Lisa's mouth as it kissed its way down her spine. Or it was Lisa's fingers, exploring every piece of her they could reach. Or it was the warm wash of Lisa's breath. Maybe it was just Lisa. Either way, she was horny as all hell and couldn't wait to share what she'd experienced. She endured the delicious agony of being naked and explored by her girlfriend for as long as she could. But her patience ran out. 

 

“Taylor, what...?” Lisa managed before their positions were flipped. She went with a surprised squeak that turned to laughter that turned to pleased sighs as Taylor kissed her way down her body. “I'll give you a billion dollars to keep going.” 

 

Taylor rested her chin on Lisa's hip for a moment, grinning wickedly. “That's the plan.” She kissed Lisa's bony hip, the outside of her thigh, and the inside of her knee before...well. Before. She breathed deep, drawing the scent of what could only be Lisa's arousal deep into her. She wanted to etch it into her soul. Then she trailed her eyes up Lisa's body. From the cleft of her legs to the rise of her breasts to the dark, sparkling depths of her green eyes. 

 

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Are you waiting for an invitation?” 

 

Taylor laughed and stepped off the bed to kneel on the carpet. She reached and hooked her arms around Lisa's hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed. Lisa's legs fell open and draped over her shoulders. She breathed in again, and then licked a wide stripe up Lisa's vagina. The taste shocked her, tart and sweet and utterly unlike anything else in the world. Above her, Lisa made a sound like a wounded animal and tangled her finger's in Taylor's hair, pulling her in. 

 

She went. Kissing and licking and exploring. She found that the further in she pressed with her tongue, the less extreme of a reaction she provoked. So she stuck to the outer edges, wrapping the folds of slippery flesh between her lips and rubbing her nose on the little nub at the top that seemed both eager to be paid attention to and reluctant to leave from beneath its little hood. It needed to be encouraged. That was fine. She would provide. 

 

=+= Chapter 45: First, Last, Only =+=

 

The little nub was key. The little nub brought Lisa's hips surging up, her fingers tightening in Taylor's hair, the muscles in her legs fluttering. Taylor devoted her attention to the nub. She had to flatten an arm over Lisa's belly to hold her still enough. The curses and endearments that fell from Lisa's lips were constant. “ _ Holy shit you this is amazing fuck yes there there there don't stop don't you fucking stop I swear to god Taylor if you stop I'm not doing this to you more I need I need more. _ ” 

 

More? Inspiration, or the product of her filthy mind, struck. She slid a finger inside. Wet heat, such heat, wrapped around her finger. Above her, Lisa made a sound like a wounded animal. She moved the digit, slowly pushing it in and then pulling it out with equal slowness. The pleas for more didn't stop. “ _ God that's so good I love you baby but I need  _ more.”

 

Ah. There was something. A knot of flesh, just inside. She curled her finger, stroking that spot as she fucked Lisa with her hand. The entire time, she made damn certain that the little nub was not neglected. Then she tried a second finger, pushing and scissoring and pulling until...

 

Until. 

 

Lisa fell apart beneath her. Beneath her lips and her fingers and her tongue her girlfriend came apart at the seams with a scream. Her hips bucked against Taylor's mouth. Her legs locked tight around Taylor's head and her heels bounced on Taylor's back. Her own back bowed as her arms scrabbled on the sheets, reaching for something, anything to ground her. The scream became a low, guttural moan as the aftershocks of orgasm shook Lisa's body. 

 

Taylor drank the whole thing in. She felt...satisfied. Pleased. Proud. Nowhere  _ near  _ sated. She waited until Lisa came back to herself enough to release her head and crawled up her girlfriend's sweaty, sexy body. She fell onto the bed next to Lisa and watched her chest rise and fall in great, heaving gasps. “Fuck me.” Lisa eventually said. 

 

“Didn't I just?” 

 

Lisa rolled onto her side, facing Taylor. “Seriously. Where did you learn  _ that _ ?” 

 

Taylor palmed Lisa's hip and pulled her closer. “I have spent  _ months  _ thinking of all the things I wanted to do with you.  _ To  _ you.” She kissed Lisa, stroking her tongue deep into her girlfriend's mouth. Then she pulled back to look into Lisa's eyes. “And I am not even  _ close  _ to running out of ideas.” 

 

There was a brief moment of silence. The entire room stank like sex and sweat. Lisa was sweaty and panting and her hair looked terrible and Taylor had no doubt she was just as bad. In the darkness of the room, with love and sex riding high between them, it was as close as Heaven on Earth as Taylor could imagine. 

 

Then Lisa grinned. “I guess we better keep going. We've only got all night.” She reached for Taylor, and pulled her into her arms. 

 

It was close to sunrise when Taylor finally ran out of ideas. It was close to sunrise when she found out that  _ her  _ ideas had given Lisa some of her own. They were good ideas. 

 

=+= Chapter 45: First, Last, Only =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't say I never give you anything. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought. I haven't written a sex scene before. I thought it was all right, but then...I would. 
> 
> Anyway. Until next time.


	46. So...Yeah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The space between spaces, wherein changes both good and bad can take place.

 

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 46: So...Yeah.**

 

The sun was rising. Thick shades of a dark brown blocked most of it, casting Lisa's bedroom in rays of shadow and sunlight. Motes swirled through the air. The room was quiet, save for the breathing of its two occupants. The wine-red sheets had puddled at the foot of the bed. One of the pillows hung haphazardly from the mattress, the other was in use. Two heads; one with white-blonde hair splayed and tangled, another with dark hair that had gone wild, rested on that pillow.

 

Lisa's eyes were bright. She held Taylor's hand to her cheek, fingers curled around her wrist. Every once in a while she'd kiss the inside of Taylor's wrist and smile at the thrumming pulse beneath her lips. After one such kiss she murmured into Taylor's skin, “This was the best idea.”

 

Taylor ran her thumb over the smooth curve of her girlfriend's cheek, then drew her in for a soft, long kiss. Bruised, kiss-swollen lips pressed against each other, sliding slick and sure until she drew away and grinned. “I agree. Which is why, when someone asks, I'm taking the credit.”

 

Lisa gasped, eyes dancing with humor. “ _All_ the credit?”

 

Taylor was unable to stop herself from kissing the slightest curve of a smile on Lisa's mouth. “ _All_ of it.”

 

That slight curve turned to a full-blown grin. She rolled Taylor onto her back and swung a leg across her hips to straddle her. Rising above, hands tangled with Taylor's, Lisa leaned down to brush their noses together. “Oh, _no._ ” There was no way to describe that grin, Taylor decided, other than _smug_ . “What _ever_ shall I do?”

 

After adopting a pensieve look, Taylor offered, “I have an idea.”

 

Lisa kissed her, stroking her tongue deep. “Shoot.”

 

Taylor freed one of her hands and slid it down the front of Lisa's body, brushing against the curls above her vagina before sliding – _ever so gently_ – over the little hood hiding the bump. Lisa shuddered, hips rising and falling, chasing the feeling created by Taylor's fingers. “Oh.” Lisa's free hand rose to pluck and pull at her nipple. “ _Yes._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 46: So...Yeah =+=

 

It had been a futile effort, she decided, to try and find all of her clothing. Especially give how she was dating one of the most notorious clothes thieves in modern history. As it was she managed to get the essentials: underwear, pants. Comfy socks. Her shirt, she suspected, would end up in Lisa's closet. So she gave up on it and went to the kitchen for a cup of tea. It was then, as she rummaged through the cabinetry, that she came to a sad realization.

 

The only tea in the entire apartment was the kind that came in bags.

 

It hurt. In her soul.

 

She persevered and, fortified with her terrible tea, went to find her phone and reconnect with the outside world. Even if she'd rather not. After hunting around for a moment she found it under the coffee table and found that she had a number of messages. From her dad she had a missed call and a voicemail. From Roo, a long-winded complaint about Sabah and/or Lily's 'complete inability to get on with it'. A text from Lily, complaining about Roo. Finally, a missed call and text from Sabah.

 

 _Best get to it_. She called her dad and reassured him that yes, she was still alive. Both of them knew there wasn't a person in the city who could threaten her, but it was nice of him to worry and a pleasure for her to reassure him. After that she texted Roo and told him to keep the pressure on, Lily was about to crack. She told Lily that Roo was entirely uncontrollable and that there was nothing she could do.

 

Then she turned her attention to Sabah. The text read: _I need your help. Call me as soon as you read this_.

 

Taylor pulled her lip between her teeth. That was certainly...foreboding. With a growing sense of worry she thumbed Sabah's contact photo. It rang twice. “ _Taylor?_ ” Tension was thick in Sabah's voice.

 

“I'm here.”

 

“ _Oh, thank God. Listen. Wait. Hang on._ ” There were sounds of muffled movement. Then it got quiet. “ _Okay. Um. I need your help._ ”

 

“I got your text. What with?”

 

“ _I kissed Lily._ ”

 

…

 

Oh.

 

=+= Chapter 46: So...Yeah =+=

 

The coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Winton was small and lively. Lots of wooden furniture and clattering ceramics. An artfully decorated blackboard covered the wall behind the counter, advertising both the menu and the drawing skills of the barista. The muffled roar of conversation filled the spaces in between all of those things. Taylor entered, tugging the hem of her shirt lower and searching the tables for Sabah.

 

It took her a few seconds. Which actually spoke to both the crowded nature of the place and the effort Sabah had put into squashing herself into a corner booth. She'd pulled her legs up, shins pressed against the table, and was running her thumbnail along the rounded edge of her phone. She was frowning at nothing in particular, bearing the expression of someone deep in thought.

 

Taylor wound her way through the tables, dodging chairs and rising customers with her usual grace. At one point she rose onto her toes and spun behind a heavyset man who ignored the world around him to focus on his phone. After about half a minute of this dance, she reached Sabah's table and dropped artlessly into the bench across from her.

 

Sabah startled and blinked, the sound of butt meeting bench jolting her from her thoughts. She stared at Taylor for a second before sighing heavily and hanging her head. “Oh, it's you. Thank God you're here, I'm driving myself crazy!”

 

“Um.” Not entirely sure how to proceed, Taylor just...dove in. “Why? I thought this was good.”

 

“It is!” By the way Sabah flattened her hands on the table and leaned in, coupled with the insistence of her voice, she meant it. “It's...it was _really_ good, right? Like, I don't know how to say just how much I liked it.”

 

“Okay. Did Lily like it?”

 

Sabah shrugged, curling in on herself. “I mean, she seemed to. She definitely kissed me back. And like, it wasn't just the one kiss. We – we made out, a little bit.”

 

Taylor's confusion remained. “That's good, too. I'm a little confused. Did it get bad after, or...what's going on? Why are you so worried?”

 

“No. No, it ended fine. We uh, we traded numbers and everything. I was like, over the moon, you know? But...” And with the tone of someone informing their peers they had less than a year to live, Sabah dropped the bomb. “It's been like, ten hours, and she hasn't texted me.”

 

 _That..._ Taylor closed her eyes. She breathed in, breathed out, and opened them. Then gave a decisive nod. She stood, going around to Sabah's side and began extricating her friend from her worry ball. “Come on.”

 

Sabah came along willingly enough. “What – Taylo – what? Where are we going?”

 

“To sort this out.”

 

Their progress came to a screeching halt. Sabah actually dug her feet into the linoleum floor. “Are you _crazy?!_ I can't do that!”

 

“Yes you can. And you will.”

 

“Oh?” Sabah set herself, mulish and ready to be stubborn for its own sake. “Why will I?”

 

“Because if you do, I'll tell you why I'm wearing Lisa's shirt.”

 

“You're _what_?” She did a quick perusal of Taylor's sartorial choices. “You _are!_ ” Then she heaved a great sigh. “Damn you for knowing me so well. Fine, but I want details, you hear me? _Details_.”

 

Taylor grinned, and led the way to the apartment Roo and Lily shared. Where it turned out that the reason that Lily hadn't texted Sabah was because she was doing to herself the exact same thing. _They really do deserve each other_ , she thought.

 

=+= Chapter 46: So...Yeah =+=

 

Sabah was in Lily's room. Taylor tried very, very hard not to listen to what they were doing as she sat at the kitchen table. Roo had offered a pot of tea – actual tea, the godsend – and she had gladly taken him up on the offer. While the leaves steeped they had a round of good-natured griping at their friends' expense. It was only after the tea was ready that things took a more serious turn. As Roo added honey and lemon to his cup he asked, “So, do you remember, way back when, when I told you that there was this whole story behind my name?”

 

“Uh...” Did she? After a few moments of thought, she found that yes, she did. “Yes. You said something like you not liking telling it to people you barely knew.”

 

“Yeah. Well, it's a bit much to be dropping on someone when you first meet them. 'Hey, my name's weird, and here's this story about why'. So I tend to wait, you know? Until I know them a little better. And I think we know each other well enough, and Lily trusts you, so...I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to tell you if you're ready to listen.”

 

This, Taylor realized, was what many people called an expression of trust. Or maybe an offering of the same. “I'll listen.”

 

Roo took a sip of tea. “Ah, that's the good stuff. Anyway.” And he began. “I was born in India, in a city called Jabalpur, which doesn't exist anymore. Um, reason being that – well, you know how Pakistan and India don't get along? Like, at all?”

 

She had memories of a history class which covered something to that effect and said as much.

 

“Well, as you might guess, giving random people superpowers didn't help things. Especially this one guy. No one ever did figure out his name. Uh, his real name, I mean. Best anyone can figure he came from Pakistan, and walked all the way to Jabalpur.”

 

“Is that...significant?”

 

Roo nodded. “India is big, and Jabalpur is not the closest town to the border. He could have picked any number of other places. But, for whatever reason, he did not. Made a beeline for my hometown and proceeded to blow it the fuck up. He was a, what's the word, Blaster? Shot like, radioactive fire all over the place. Destroyed ninety percent of the town and irradiated the rest like Chernobyl before he created enough parahumans to kill him.

 

The aftermath is the important bit, though. That's where I come in. All the people who ran and survived and weren't horrifically radioactive needed somewhere to be. Me and three others were some of them. We ended up, through a series of...events...in the care of a woman named Prudence Abernathy. She took us in, raised us and, when she died, we decided to honor what she did in the best way we knew. So now, there's four Indian boys running around America named Prudence Abernathy. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

Taylor reached across the table to pat his hand. At some point, Lily and Sabah had entered the kitchen. Lily seemed to know the story. Sabah clearly did not. Both seemed to see it for what it was. “I think, maybe, you did it because she loved you. And you her.”

 

Roo looked down at his tea and nodded. “Yeah.”

 

=+= Chapter 46: So...Yeah =+=

 

Taylor's phone began to ring. The chirping, while neither particularly loud nor annoying, seemed both in the quiet haven of Roo and Lily's kitchen. It took her a few seconds to dig out the offending device and, thumb hovering over 'deny call', checked who was calling. She gave an apologetic, somewhat bewildered look to the other three. “What does the PRT want?”

 

Sabah shrugged, wrapping an arm around Lily's waist to draw the shorter girl against her. “Better find out. They hate it when you make them leave a voicemail.”

 

Taylor accepted the call. “Hello?”

 

“ _Am I speaking to Guardian?_ ”

 

She recognized that voice. “Kenneth?”

 

“ _Yes! I'm calling on behalf of Director Piggot. She'd like to speak with you.”_

 

She frowned. “Okay. When?”

 

“ _As soon as possible, Guardian.”_

 

She lifted her shoulders and made a sound of helpless confusion. “I can be there in...twenty minutes?”

 

“ _Perfect. I'll let her know to expect you then.”_

 

“Wait, Kenneth!”

 

“ _Yes?”_

 

“What's this about?”

 

“ _Pittsburgh. The Director will fill you in. I'm sorry, Guardian, I have to go. More calls to make.”_

 

With a murmured goodbye, she hung up. She looked to the three across from her. They looked back, a growing certainty that _something_ – nobody knew what – was horribly, horribly wrong.

 

=+= Chapter 46: So...Yeah =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months since an update is the longest I've ever gone. And I am sorry. 
> 
> If you've stuck with me this long, though, I hope you'll forgive me. 
> 
> In lighter news, I'm really pleased with the reception to the previous chapter. I had concerns, and it turned out they were unfounded, and that's always a nice feeling. 
> 
> So. By now, you know what comes next. I desperately beg you to comment, bookmark, leave a kudo, or otherwise show your approval. So...yeah. Please?


	47. Turn the Screw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell deeds awake.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 47: Turn the Screw**

 

By the end of her time in Las Vegas, there wasn't a single piece of Taylor's costume that remained untorn, unstained, or intact. After coming home and sleeping for the better part of fourteen hours, she'd taken the remnants to Sabah and it had promptly been declared a lost cause. So they'd put their heads together and come up with a new idea. An evolution, so to speak, to reflect the new, dangerous times she found herself in. Before heading in to meet with the PRT, she picked up the result. She liked what she'd found.

 

Quick first impression: sleeker, darker, deadlier. A full helmet in addition to a hood because she, and this was a direct quote, “got punched in the face _way_ too much.” The coloring trended more towards grays and dark greens. Whereas before her chestpiece resembled a vest-corset mating, this new one was more along the lines of ballistic vests and breastplates. Her gloves covered the length of her forearm, leaving the tips of her fingers exposed for things like holding a knife and loading a gun. The material of her cloak was more like that of a canvas duster than the cloth it was before. She was also finding places to hold various tools. Little loops that were clearly for magazines, clips for knife sheaths, pockets to hold stuff, that kind of thing. 

 

All in all, she thought as she admired herself in a mirror, it looked less like a costume and more like armor. The kind of thing a warrior would wear. She approved, all the way down to her Light.

 

She ran to the PRT buildings instead of driving – well,  _being_ driven, she still didn't have her license – so as to get a good idea of how her armor felt to move in. It was to Sabah's immense credit that despite the added weight and stiffness, she had no harder a time than before. She covered the distance quickly, pausing on a roof with a good viewpoint to get a look at what was going on. 

 

It looked like a disturbed beehive, mixed with a broken-open anthill. Parahumans in brightly colored outfits, suits of powered armor, or in the centers of brightly coruscating coronas of energy flew to and from the building in large numbers. More flying parahumans – more parahumans in general – than lived in Brockton Bay. The ground around the building hosted a similar scene. Cars came and went, all of them black with tinted windows and government plates. Men in armored uniforms were loading and unloading parcels. There was a half-moon of metal, thirty feet wide and half again as tall, set into asphalt at one side of the vast parking lot. Within that space was a field of sky-blue energy. Some of the cars and trucks would drive into it and disappear, and others would appear from it trailing wisps of turquoise ether.

 

Taylor dropped to the ground and made her way inside. It was a very strange feeling to be recongized on sight, let alone be allowed entry to a high security location with nothing more than a nod and armed escort. She'd gone through airports with more hassle. As they rode the elevator up, she turned to ask one of her escorts, “What's going on?”

 

There was a quick exchange of helmeted glances between her escorts before one of them turned to her. “You weren't told?”

 

“Not everything. Something's happening in Pittsburgh, something bad. That's all I was able to get.”

 

“Well.” The same guard rolled his shoulders as if settling his vest more comfortably on his person. She sympathized. “That's not wrong. Word is that containment has failed and we're all coming together to try a Hail Mary to save the city. It's on a whole other level of fucked.”

 

=+= Chapter 47: Turn the Screw =+=

 

Director Piggot's health seemed to have made a turnaround in the weeks since their last meeting. She wasn't quite so enormously fat, though a great deal of weight still hung from her frame. Her skin, once a waxy gray, had become a clearer, _slightly_ healthier white. Her breaths seemed to come easier, and her eyes burned with furious purpose. For all of that, though, all she said when seeing Taylor was, “Guardian. New look?”

 

Taylor touched her helmet before nodding. “My friends were tired of me getting punched in the face.”

 

The Director made a sound that could have, given time and proper care, been a chuckle. It was not. “Understandable. Please, have a seat.” Once Taylor had, she continued. “I imagine you're somewhat unclear to the specifics of what's happening. Sadly, I won't be able to give you as much information as either of us would like. We're on a war footing.”

 

“I understand.” Taylor did. She remembered how fast things had gone in Las Vegas, and she'd only been aware of – at most – _half_ of what was going on. Further, she'd only been part of things. To be in control, in part or in whole? It'd be insane. “What _can_ you tell me?”

 

“I can tell you that of the original six cities attacked, or perhaps _infected_ , by Nilbog's creatures, Pittsburgh was the one with the smallest parahuman response. As a result, the creatures were able to establish a much more secure position than in any of the other cities.”

 

She frowned. “Why was the response so much smaller?”

 

The Director's answer was simple. “Manpower.” At Taylor's tilted head, she elaborated. “It's not much more complicated than that. Parahumans are, by their nature, capable of extraordinary things. But with a few notable exceptions, they cannot be in multiple cities at once. Since multiple cities were attacked at once, choices had to be made. And now, as a result of those choices, we stand a very real danger of losing Pittsburgh entirely.”

 

A jolt of panic ran through Taylor. If the monsters managed to break free, there was no counting how much death they would cause and how far they would spread before they could be destroyed. “What's being done?”

 

“Several things. The most pertinent, and the reason I asked you here, is that the Protectorate is reinforcing the soldiers and parahumans in the city. I want you and your team to be a part of my division's response.”

 

“Why? I mean, why us?” Never mind that Taylor didn't think of her and her friends as a 'team', not in the way the Director meant it. There were times to bring that up.

 

“You've proven yourself to be an especially capable and effective young woman, for one thing. For another, in terms of casualties suffered, yours was one of the five Las Vegas strike teams to only suffer comparatively minor injuries.” The Director sighed. “I realize that's a large burden to bear, but there's more. Of all of the parahumans to encounter Nilbog's creations, you are the only one to – however briefly – encounter _him_.”

 

That...she didn't like to think about that. The darkened, bloodstained cavern, gleaming orange in the witchlight of a massive crystal. That voice, booming and sepulchral and utterly, _utterly_ insane. She nodded, and tried not to let the memory put a shiver in her voice. “He was – it...” 

 

The Director nodded. “Quite.” The older woman took a breath and laid her hands flat on her desk. “There's more information I can offer, but it's all behind a barrier of confidentiality. If you agree to join the response, there's a briefing this evening.”

 

Taylor remembered the promise she made. The furious, gleaming brand in her hands and the wrathful Light inside her. There was really only one thing to say. “We'll be there.”

 

=+= Chapter 47: Turn the Screw =+=

 

In the gray hours of the early morning, a spring breeze blowing cool and brisk, the Pittsburgh Containment Wall looked imposing and formidable. At least, from a distance. It was only when she got closer that Taylor saw the scars. Fire had scorched meters-long swathes of ash down its length. Black, molasses-sticky ichor mixed with the ash. Numerous craters, pits dug into the wall itself by some acidic substance. The defenders themselves, an electic mix of uniformly armored military soldiers, Protectorate troopers, and costumed capes. All of them weary, many of them wounded. None of them whole. 

 

“ _The wall and its defenders, have been under continuous assault from the enemy forces within the city. For the last six days, an attack has come every four hours. Two days ago, the gap shrunk to every hour and forty five minutes. Earlier today, when the emergence of a new type of creature made air support riskier than it was helpful, the gap shrunk even further to every half hour._ _By our most optimistic predictions, an attack will come within ten minutes of our arrival.”_

 

Taylor was reassured by the familiar weight of her weapons in various places on her armor. Her knife, loyal and dependable and utterly unrecognizable from the kitchen knife it'd started life as, rode horizontal at the small of her back. In their sheaths on her breastplate were short-handled, wide-bladed throwing knives. Her gun, sleek and black and gold, was solid and reassuring on her thigh. The newest addition to her arsenal was in a shoulder worn baldric – which she hadn't known existed until two hours ago – and hung on her opposite hip. Lily's former sword, gifted in good faith and changed by Light. It had begun life as a dull, blunted fencing blade, made lethal by the application of Lily's power.

 

Her own had done something different. The fire she'd poured into it, as hot and relentless as the sun, had infused the blade's center with a swirling comet's tail of red-and-gold. The blade itself had flattened, curving gently at the tip, and gained a single, razor edge. In the depths of her mind where her nerdiness dwelled, she'd started calling it Howl, for the sound it made when it cut the air. The sword was thin and slender and  _ hers _ . No matter  _ what  _ Lily said. 

 

“ _Upon arrival, team leaders will make contact with the commanding officer, General Daniel McKnight, and receive their orders. A counter-offensive is being planned, a final effort to retake the city. If it fails, and the area remains under enemy control, the President and Congress have authorized Eidolon and the military to utterly destroy_ everything _within its walls. Your tablets and briefing packets should contain information on the state of the defenses and the new types of enemy you'll be facing.”_

 

Taylor led Lisa and Lily to the command tent, easily identified by dint of being larger and busier than every other tent. Armsmaster's word rang in her ears. The city wouldn't fall, not if she had anything to say about it.

 

=+= Chapter 47: Turn the Screw =+=

 

There was a ten-minute countdown ticking away in her head. In _everyone's_ head. Ten minutes, the briefing had said, at most. It certainly went a ways towards lending wings to people's feet. Lisa, laden down with her own weapons of war, stole one last kiss “for luck” before heading off. In turn, Lily followed her to the armory.

 

Taylor found her fingers itching for what she saw. Rifles by the dozen, stack neatly against the walls. Crate after crate of ammunition. Pistols and shotguns and enough explosives to put a serious hole in the world. As she saw all of that, all those instruments of death and destruction, she felt right at home.

 

Beside her, Lily ran her hand over the array of knives – ranging from switchblade short to machete long – and said, “I wish I was as brave as you.” She chose a blade with an odd inward curve. A chopping, hacking thing, it would be ruinous in her hands. It went into a sheath at her hip. After a moment's consideration, she took a second. Then a bracer of throwing knives. And a machete.

 

Taylor paused in her perusal of the guns. Next to her, patient and watchful, the quartermaster kept quiet, his only reaction to their youth being a raised brow. “Am I brave?”

 

Lily snorted, strapping the bracer to her forearm. “Of course you are. What else could you be?”

 

Taylor ran her hands over a thickly barreled shotgun. She took it down and hefted the weight. Solid. Reassuring. She slung it and the accompanying sling of shells over her shoulder and went to the rifles. “I don't know. I don't think it's bravery to do this if you're not afraid.”

 

“You're not?”

 

She shook her head. The last rifle she held had been obnoxious to use. Granted, she'd been underground at the time. Tight spaces, confinement, and all that. She'd still ended up with a broken wrist. It hadn't slowed her down all that much, she recalled. Either way, she took one of the rifles – an M4, the quartermaster quietly informed her – and went to start loading magazines. Lily joined her after a moment. “I think that when I gained this – my power, it changed something inside me.”

 

Dark eyes regarded her through a domino mask. “You think it made you fearless?”

 

She shrugged. “No. I still get scared. Just...not of this. It doesn't scare me anymore. I don't think being brave is doing things you're not scared of.”

 

Lily smiled, a small and quiet thing. “If you're about to quote the Duke, I'll kick you.”

 

Taylor furrowed her brow. “Who?”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“No.”

 

Lily punched her on the shoulder. Then took a deep breath. “Come on, Guardian. Let's go save the world.”

 

As if on cue, a siren began to wail. Feet began to pound outside the armory and Taylor led Lily to join to rush to stand atop the wall. From its pinnacle she could clearly see the tide of shrieking, hideous creatures. She loaded a magazine into the M4 and armed it. Her Light sang within her. All along the wall, soldiers and troopers did as she had, while the assembled capes began to gleam and glow and glimmer with their various powers.

 

Just before the defenders of man poured wrath onto the screaming horde Taylor whispered something to herself. “Eyes up, Guardian.”

 

And it began.

 

=+= Chapter 47: Turn the Screw =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, we begin the penultimate arc of Guardian. After more than a year of writing and a great deal of faffing around on my part, we reach it. 
> 
> I have been waiting a long time for this. 
> 
> It's full tilt from here to the end, everyone. Brace yourselves.


	48. The Pledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now for wrath.

  **Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 48: The Pledge**

 

In the course of the next thirty seconds, Taylor learned the following things about the Pittsburgh Containment Wall. First, that it did, in fact, encircle the whole city. Second, that it had been built over a forty eight hour period by the combined efforts of Dragon – the premier Tinker of North America and founder of the Guild – and the Army Corps of Engineers. Thirdly, that since its contstruction it had repelled fifty six efforts to break through by Nilbog's creatures.

 

Fourth, and finally, that it had just failed.

 

Plaster and debris rained down around her, coating the immediate world in a cloud of shapeless gray. Her head spun. A bone-deep flame burned its way down her leg. Bruises by the dozen formed and faded along her body. There was a _pop_ as her eardrums rebuilt themselves, and then she heard nothing but a high, wavering whine. She struggled to her feet, knee grinding and crunching as what was once a terribly broken leg set and fixed itself. Her breathing, harsh and fast, replaced the whine in her ears. 

 

Her hearing came back. The thunderous, chattering howl of high-caliber firearms. Booming roars of explosive ordinance. A thousand different sounds that meant parahumans were bringing their metaphysical might to bear. The endless, skittering scream of the enemy horde. A dozen voices raised in unison, crying out “BREACH!”.

 

As the dust began to settle she could see them. Through the fifteen foot gap in the wall stepped – or rather,  _floated_ – a new type of enemy. Long, spindly limbs. Expressive, triple-jointed fingers. Fluttering, tattered robes that were fused with its smooth, gray skin. Spines protruding from its shoulders. An inverted, misshapen pyramid for a head, eldritch script burning green across the length of its face. Those runes hurt to look at. Its mouth, a slash of needle-like, lamprey teeth, opened. A sound pierced the air, pierced the souls of everyone around.  _Despair_ , this creature sang. 

 

Her rifle hung by its frayed strap, tangled with her dusty cloak. She scrambled to free it, Light roaring up from her soul and wreathing her arms, then her body, in golden, solar flame. The floating thing's gaze snapped to her and raised a skeletal arm. Pointed a spider-limb finger at her.

 

The rifle came free. Rose. Came to Light. Eager, anxious to be used.

 

Her teeth bared, Taylor pointed back.

=+= Chapter 48: The Pledge =+=

 

Blood wept from a pair of long, parallel tears ran from her shoulder down to her elbow, courtesy of the floating creature. She pressed a hand over her wounds, wincing at how they stitched themselves closed. Her panted breaths rang hollow in the confines of her helmet. She stood in the gap of the Containment Wall, watching the enemy corpses dissolve into ash and ichor while their living counterparts flowed back into the underground from whence they came. 

 

The coated plastiglass of her visor had been cracked, a spiderweb of flaws from having been subjected to a force like nothing she'd ever experienced. Whatever it was that floating creature conjured in its hands and threw, it was unlike anything they'd brought to bear before. Armored vehicles, tanks and Tinkered creations, rumbled forward to push debris away from the breach and crush it beneath heavy treads and wheels. They moved on through to form a protective arc on the far side of the wall. Behind them came an army of men and women, equipment in hand to begin repairs.

 

As they did, a woman in fatigues jogged up to Taylor. She had a medical kit in hand and a red cross patch on her shoulder. “Ma'am.” She said. Her voice was clear and strong. Commanding, even. “I need you to come with me so we can get that injury looked at.”

 

Taylor looked back to the breach, where men were using huge circular saws to cut jagged chunks of concrete away while others were rapidly constructing a scaffolding with lengths of piping and wood. “Will they be safe?”

 

The medic nodded. “Safe as can be, ma'am. Please. I need you to come with me.” She put a leading hand on Taylor's good arm, exerting gentle but consistent pressure. After a moment's hestitation, Taylor allowed herself to be led away.

 

The medical tent was a horrid place. Long and brightly lit and clean. More red-cross patched men and women in fatigues, hands covered by plastic gloves and faces hidden behind masks, moved with experience-won efficiency from person to person. The three parahumans on the East Coast capable of healing made for a contrast in colors by comparison. They kept their voices calm and reassuring as they broke physics to make the broken whole.

 

Taylor hated being there. She could smell too much. Blood and sweat and fear and burnt flesh, mixed terribly with bleach and antiseptic and latex. Shit, from where someone's large intestine had been exposed. She could hear too much. Whispered conversations between doctors, tired sighs from nurses. Weeping men pleading for their families, to see one last time before they died. A woman two beds down breathing out for the last time. A chaplain, sad and tired, praying with those the healers couldn't reach in time. She stuck around long enough to let someone bandage her arm in a superfluous gesture before vanishing into the controlled chaos outside. 

 

=+= Chapter 48: The Pledge =+=

 

It didn't take her long to find Lisa. She was ensconced in the command tent, a darkened corner all to her self. A desk, covered in loose papers and pens. Curved computer monitors, four of them side-by-side, in front of her. A pair of tablets balanced precariously on the monitor stands. As Taylor walked up her glaze flickered from display to display, a pen between her lips bobbing up and down as she murmured to herself. She took that pen and scribbled something on one of the papers before she noticed that Taylor was there. “Ta – Guardian! You okay? There was a medic looking for you.”

 

Taylor nodded. The emotion that had raged inside her had, on the walk over, calmed to the point that she could put a name to it. “I'm fine.” Lisa made a face that said how big a lie that was. “Okay. I'm not. It just hit me, you know.”

 

Green eyes, sharp and bright, gazed at her. “What did?”

 

She looked right back. “I hate him. Nilbog. Rinke. Whatever the fuck his name is. I think I used to pity him, just a little bit. But now...” she shrugged, a gesture of forced nonchalance. “If no one beats me to it, I'll kill him with my bare hands.”

 

Lisa reached out, touched one of her hands. A hand that had clenched into a fist, clenched so tightly it shook. She looked down in surprise, only now feeling the tension of her grip. She loosened it to let Lisa twine their fingers together. “You'll find a lot of people with the same feeling. This?” she gestured at the leftmost screen. “This is the most recent census for the city. They only do these every few years, so it's probably out of date, but even so...” she sighed shakily. “Every one of these people is either dead, missing, or one of those creatures. That's on him. Rinke killed all of these people. He killed everyone in Vegas, and Brockton, and in every other city.” She shook her head. “You're surprised at how much you can hate one man? We all are, I think.”

 

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Lisa knew her as well as, if not better, than her own father. Further, she was right. Taylor _hated_ Rinke. Hated him more than she'd hated anything in her life. Worse than Emma, who'd thrown a lifelong relationship away like an empty gum wrapper. Worse than the driver who'd taken her mother from her. More than death, for trying to claim her too soon. She hated him so much it scared her. The emotion left her breathless to consider, so great was its scope.

 

One of the tablets chimed. Lisa looked at it, then showed her teeth. It wasn't a smile. “Just in time.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Lisa nodded. “General McKnight called a meeting. He wants you there.”

 

=+= Chapter 48: The Pledge =+=

 

General Daniel “Danny, please, I'm too fucking tired to be Daniel right now” McKnight was a short, stock man in his late fifties. His uniform, hosting an impressive array of medals, was rumpled and creased. There was a coffee stain Taylor could smell on one of his cuffs. He had _presence_ , the kind of person who could command a room's attention by entering it, which is what he did. The tent the meeting was taking place in was erected for that express purpose, and had enough standing room for the fifteen people in it. Each and every one of them, talking quietly among themselves, went silent when the general entered the room. He scanned the room, meeting everyone's eyes, before nodding. “Good. You're all here.”

 

“We finally hitting these assholes back, sir?” One of the soldiers asked. He was black and lean and had big ears. His words were light, almost joking. His tone was flat. The tag on his shirt said Neville. First or last name, Taylor didn't know.

 

The general paced to the front of the tent before answering. It was a brief response. “Yes.”

 

The tent erupted.

 

It took a bit to come back down. Once it had, the general continued. “Now that we've been reinforced, and the other cities have been declared either clear or no considerable threat, the focus of Operation Vanguard has shifted here. The time has come for us to take back the city.” He removed a small remote from a pocket and clicked it. On the tent wall behind him a satellite map of Pittsburgh appeared. Parts of it were filled in with different colors. The stadium, Taylor noted, bore a pale blue color and the label 'trap'. “Pay attention, people. I'm only saying this once.”

 

The plan was as follows: first, parahumans would do a flyover of the city, blasting every concentration of the enemy they could find. They were to focus on the new, anti-air creatures. After that, the Air Force would carpet the city and areas of operation with bombs. Then, helicopters piloted remotely by Dragon would airlift vehicles and munition to staging areas. Deployment would begin after the trap had been sprung.

 

The trap was a collection of barricades, automated guns, and people in heavily fortified power armor. Explosive caches, buried beneath the field as a last surprise. And more of Dragon's remotely piloted vehicles. The idea was to draw as many of the enemy to one place while the rest of the city was reclaimed. It would be a bloody, hours-long fight, and to keep the eye of the enemy fixed there, superlative bait was needed. But what to bait a trap like that with?

 

General McKnight cast his eye around the silent tent before he spotted Taylor. “Guardian, there you are. Nilbog has shown a fixation with you and defeating you. With your consent, you'll be our bait.”

 

She didn't hesitate. “I'll do it, sir.”

 

He looked, just for a second, old and sad. Then he nodded. “Right. You've got your orders on your tablets. Go word is 'Irene'. We start in two hours. Be ready. Dismissed!”

 

=+= Chapter 48: The Pledge =+=

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have anything to say here. Other than, of course, that I love you. All of you.


	49. The Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now for ruin.

**Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 49: The Turn**

 

Taylor had power. She was strong, fast, and capable. A dead-eye shot with every gun she'd held and a keen, vicious dancer with a blade. The Light that twined and interwove with her soul let her reach beyond even those heights. From the void itself she could shape bow and arrow. From the heart of the storm she could call lightning. From the furious existence of the sun she could bring flame.

 

_Irene_ was the word by which a city could be invaded, but not if it was spoken by her. The power inherent in giving such an order belonged to General McKnight. By his word a massive bombing run was undertaken, scorching the streets of Pittsburgh with explosive ordnance both mundane and abnormal. Parahumans flew side-by-side with squat, fat-bellied bomber planes and fighter jets howled by in flocks. All coming together to pour wrath onto the teeming hordes of the enemy. 

 

From where Taylor stood in the heart of Heinz stadium, with the earth rumbling and grumbling beneath her feet, she couldn't say who held more power. The early afternoon sky suddenly and violently shifted to a sunset orange and heat bloomed in the air. The very sky wavered with the force of the detonations, a wall of pure sound that chased a curtain of dust and debris across the once-empty stadium. It forced her back a step, pulled her cloak out behind her and tore at its hem.

 

Then came the helicopters. The same unmanned aerial transports that had carried her, Lily, and Grace into the heart of Las Vegas and back out. By the dozens, in no particular formation, they flew overhead. The sound was only quiet by comparison to that which had come before.

 

She waited, megaphone in hand, for her cue. Her job was simple: make either Nilbog or whatever meager intelligence guided his creatures aware of her existence and location in this spot. To manipulate his hatred of her and draw the bulk of his surviving forces – some  _had_ survived, there was no doubt of that – to her. Thus, she was bait. 

 

The trap was around her. Miles of concrete K-rails, automated and manned gun emplacements, enough ammunition to fight a small war, and a small group of volunteer soldiers to help her shoot everything she saw. In the face. General McKnight's voice came through the fitted ear radio. “ _Guardian. You're up._ ”

 

“Yes, sir. Insulting him now.” Taylor lifted the megaphone to her lips, itself having been wired into the stadium's speakers, and began to insult Nilbog. Jamie. Who-the-fuck-ever.

 

=+= Chapter 49: The Turn =+=

 

They didn't have to make sense. Taylor told herself this as she segued into another comparison of Nilbog's face and that of a festering ass boil. They just had to let him know she was here. _Well_ , she thought, as the face of the soldiers nearest her slowly took on expressions of fascinated horror, _he definitely does now._ She dug up every burn, every insult, every put-down, brush-off, or cutting comment she could recall hearing, experiencing or reading, and a few she made up on the spot.

 

Some were good: “No matter your power, Jimmy, you're still a talentless imbecile who barely, _barely_ , reached the low hanging fruit of murder!”

 

Some, less so: “And another thing! Did the whispers know how pathetic you were when they picked you? They should have!”

 

As the minutes, all five of them thus far, dragged on, she began to wonder if he were even listening to her. No sooner had she thought that did there come a great, terrible, cacophany. Shrieking, screeching howls by the thousand, by the tens of thousand. Every screamer, shooter, giant, or floating, skeleton thing in existence seemed to be giving voice to their creator's fury. It _was_ fury, too. She could somehow tell. These creatures were either enraged or giving voice to Nilbog's.

 

Either way, a few seconds after the screaming began, the mines buried in the parking lot outside the stadium started going off. Dull, ground-rumbling thunderclaps that she could feel in her chest. She touched the radio in her ear, cueing it, “This is Guardian,” she had to shout-speak over the detonations and the endless screeches. “Trap is sprung.”

 

It took a moment for a response, and when it came, there was an oddly pinched quality to General McKnight's voice. As if he were holding back some amount of emotion. She wondered if it was concern for his soldiers or the success of his plan. “ _Confirmed, Guardian. Aerial footage has half the damned city coming down on you. Countdown to withdrawal has begun. Good luck and Godspeed._ ”

 

“Thank you, sir.” She touched the radio again, turning it off, then checked her watch. A recent gift from the quartermaster before she'd left. A one-and-a-half hour countdown had begun on it. That was how long they'd have to hold this place. Keep his eye fixed on them. The last of the mines went off. The stands began to shake as giants by the dozen began to tear their way in. She checked her rifle, one last time, before looking to the soldier standing next to her. “The general wishes us luck. Think we'll need it?”

 

What was left of the unshattered glass broke. Steel beams and concrete bent and crumbled, rent and tore as the giants came roaring in. Each one the size of a two-story building, skin thick and pale orange. Weeping, compound eye gleaming with purple-green flame. Easily a dozen. The turrets tracked, spun up, and spat death. The soldier grinned back. “Hell no.” He hefted his own rifle as the screamers came pouring in, flooding into the K-rail maze like water. They weren't alone. Shooters, big blades, and big shooters came in behind them. There was a disturbing amount of intelligence in their motions. “We got this.”

 

Taylor barked a laugh, aimed, and started fighting.

 

=+= Chapter 49: The Turn =+=

 

Her soul – her _Light_ sang.

 

Hell and pandemonium reigned all around her. A giant, eye a bloodied ruin, tore a turret from its platform, power cable sparking and popping as it stretched and tore, and crumpled it between massive fists. Another two turrets tracked to face the giant and tore it to pieces with concentrated fire. Their doing that allowed another pair of giants to begin plowing through the maze of concrete K-rails. As one, her and the soldiers turned and poured gunfire into them and the smaller creatures swarming about their feet. In the distance, a sextet of big shooters arced their cannon-arms and sent a tightly packed comet of witchlight plasma towards her position.

 

A voice she didn't recognize screamed, “COVERRRRRR!!!”

 

She threw herself backwards, arcing and spinning into a backflip as she saw the comet crash into the firing platform, a hastily constructed thing of concrete, and obliterate it. The soldiers who hadn't jumped or simply hadn't been fast enough were obliterated with it. As she rose from her crouch she saw another comet rise into the air. She followed its path and it led her to one of the remaining turrets currently spraying the flood of screamers with gunfire. Behind it, from a different place, another comet rose, this one heading towards one of the two remaining firing platforms.

 

Automatically, she reached for a fresh magazine. Those big shooter squads had to go. She was the only one who could do it. The soldiers were busy and, even with the best training, just weren't fast enough. Not like her. Her hand, instead of finding a blocky plastic form, slapped against an empty pocket.

 

The resupply wasn't far. It was actually extremely close. She could reach it and be gone in less than a minute. Half a minute. But in that time another three comets would be in the air. She dropped her rifle. Drew not her pistol, but Howl and her knife. She breathed in. The sun and the furious storm bellowed in her soul, crying out to be used. Lightning crackled along, becoming and extending the blade of her knife. Howl became wreathed in sunfire. She charged.

 

Up along the top of the K-rails her nimble feet danced, blades flashing, thunder cracking. Screamers dying and witchlight plasma hissing by as she ducked and wove and killed. A pair of screamers leapt into the air and dissolved into ash, a cloud of it that she charged through and left trailing behind her. Her very own comet's tail. She drew closer, vaulting over and severing a giant's reaching arm. The regard of the horde was shifting. Fixating on her. Or perhaps it had always been thus, and only now, surrounded and alone, did she feel its weight.

 

That _was_ the plan, though. As she cleaved into the first squad of big shooters she could hear the rumbling steps of the giants as they turned to face her. As she killed the last of them and darted forwards, blades trailing Light behind her, she could feel them closing in. Gunfire's roar told her that the soldiers and turrets were still alive and firing. _Good_.

 

She hit the second group like a meteor. Two died before they could react, Howl piercing up through the back of a skull and her knife gouging out a throat. The rest went down quickly. Not quickly enough for her to maintain her lead on the pursuing giants. Teeth bared, she conceded the chase. Spun on her heel, cloak flaring out behind her in an arc of tattered cloth.

 

Four giants before her. More behind. She could see their skin spark and pock from the impact of bullets. She hoped the soldiers were good enough not to hit her. She figured the turrets probably were. Either way, she jumped. Up and into the face of the center giant, Howl buried past the hilt in its fleshy, weeping eye. It reeled back into one of its fellows as she pivoted at the waist and leaped again, pulling free her burning sword and driving both deep into the chest of another giant. She clawed her way up its body, inches ahead of its own claws gouging rents in its chest. Reaching the head, instead of jumping again, she used her knife as a fulcrum to slide around the back of the giant, opening its neck with the lightning edge as a different giant crashed into her mount.

 

Such glorious chaos. She used the back of the fallen giants she'd just brought down as a sprinboard, going low and fast at the next in line. It was faster than its fellows. Smarter, too. It caught her in its claws and began to _squeeze_. She could feel its steel-bar fingers close ever tighter. Bones would break soon. Bones would break, organs would rupture, and she would be wrung out like a wet rag.

 

Unless...

 

_Blink_.

 

Hell and pandemonium reigned, and her Light and her soul sang in revelry.

 

Amidst the death, Taylor danced.

 

=+= Chapter 49: The Turn =+=

 

Until she didn't.

 

Until the turrets ran dry and the horde kept coming and the soldiers were in her ear, screaming, screaming at her to _FALL BAAACK!_ Until her knife broke on the spine of a screamer and her sword's edge began to run dull from carving through such toughened flesh. Until the fury of the storm began to wane and the flame of the sun began to set.

 

She ran. Back the way she had come, dancing along the K-rails. No blades in hand, not this time. No Light singing through her. Just her pistol, solid and loud, cracking flatly and fast as she ran. Spent brass rained down behind her as she ran, reloading on the move and shooting more. She reached the evacuation point; a pre-designated, fifteen foot square of turf.

 

There were so few soldiers left, and none without injury. The luckiest among them sported burns from witchlight plasma and cuts from screamer claws, and the unluckiest would not be leaving at all. Their bodies would remain, their sacrifice remembered. And, if Taylor had any say in the matter, their vengeance carved into the teeming horde of the enemy.

 

“TEN SECONDS!!” a woman screamed. Blood wept from a cut above her eye. “HOLD THEM HERE! EVERYTHING YOU GOT!” 

 

Time slowed. 

 

Ten. The soldiers formed a circle, guns facing out. The woman stood at the center, holding a briefcase-sized piece of technology in her hand. It glowed, growing brighter by the second. Taylor stood the circle. She had grenades in her hands. The horde came on, screamers leading in a tide of expendable, screeching flesh. Primed, the grenades flew. The guns of the soldiers made a  _ phoomf _ sound, and more followed. Explosions shook the air and rained viscera down upon them. 

 

Nine. A soldier pulled a remote from their pocket, pressed the button. The explosives embedded in the K-rails – what few were left – went off. The earth beneath their feet shook. Giants fell. Some got back up. 

 

Eight. Gunfire began to pour out. Nobody aiming anymore, it was impossible to miss. Taylor used her free hand to fan the hammer of her pistol. For a few moments, it seemed that the horde would be pushed back. The first wave of screamers died, as did the second and third. Bodies began to pile up, a barricade of the dead. 

 

Seven. Someone was screaming. Scratch that.  _ Everyone  _ was screaming. Taylor, the device, the soldiers, and of course, the screamers. The gunfire continued unabated. Behind the wall of corpses a group of big blades were approaching. Behind them, big shooters. 

 

Six. The first witchlight plasma shot took the soldier standing next to Taylor in the chest. He went down, chest sizzling, and was pulled back into the shrinking circle. 

 

Five. The first big blade pushed through the wall of the dead. Taylor mustered her last scrap of Light and shot it in the face. The empowered bullet tore its head off and it fell backwards into its fellows. 

 

Four. The light from the device was growing. The woman holding it screamed “My hands!” 

 

Three. As one, the remaining soldiers and Taylor took a step back. The guns ran dry. The call went out.  _ FIX BAYONETS _ . She drew her sword.

 

Two. The enemy reached them. The big blade in front of her reared back, blade-arm lifting to come down with momentous force when – 

 

One. There was a flare of light.

 

They were gone. 

 

=+= Chapter 49: The Turn =+=

 

They reappeared outside the medical tent. Of the soldiers who volunteered, sixteen in number, seven remained. The woman dropped the device and cradled her scorched hands, staring at them in shock as medics and healer parahumans rushed forward.

 

“Taylor!” Someone barreled into her, knocking her back a step. She dropped her sword as she found her arms full of Lisa. It only occurred to her that she'd called Taylor by name instead of by Guardian much later, after everything was all over. “Thank fucking God you're all right!”

 

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I'm fine, baby.” Her arms went around Lisa's shaking body. “Filthy and tired, but fine. How'd the mission go?”

 

Still trembling, Lisa pulled away. Green eyes lined red shone with unshed tears just now beginning to spill. She shook her head. Her voice thick, she said, “It went wrong. It went _so, so wrong_. General McKnight called for a full retreat. He said – he said...”

 

“What? What did he say?”

 

Lisa inhaled, quick and sharp. “He said the city was declared a loss. They're...they're sending in Eidolon.” She pointed, Taylor turned, and hanging in the air above the Containment Wall was a figure everyone on Earth would recognize. The figure spread their arms. “He's going to destroy the city. We lost.”

 

=+= Chapter 49: The Turn =+=

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even after you've done everything right, given your best effort and done everything you can, it still goes wrong. 
> 
> No matter how hard you fight, sometimes you still lose. 
> 
> On days like that, it's more important what you do next. 
> 
> In lighter news, I blame the delay in this chapter on Monster Hunter World! It has eaten me, and I am typing this from a rudimentary computer made from Rathian parts. That being said: no regerts. Not a single regert to be had here, no sir. 
> 
> Anyway, do feel free to drop a comment and tell me what you thought of this chapter. Or leave a kudo if you liked it, but have a crippling phobia of keyboards. Heaven forfend you actually bookmark this. I'll catch you guys in chapter 50.


	50. The Prestige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the red dawn.

  **Guardian**

**a Worm/Destiny Crossover**

 

**Chapter 50: The Prestige**

 

In the years and years to come, Taylor would be asked the same question many times. The inflection would always be different. From well-intentioned pity in the eyes of the old, men and women who held themselves like she did, to the sympathy of the young; open hearts and open arms and soft, sad eyes. There was the morbid curiosity that bade motorists to stop and try to spy corpses amidst the twisted wrecks on the roadside, sick fascination on their faces, knowing they shouldn't ask but unable to stop themselves. There was outrage, loud and strident and full of fear disguised as anger, people who wanted to be assured that nothing like that could happen again and knowing they would never succeed. In short, the inflection of the question ran the gamut of humanity; good and bad and everything in between.

 

The question?

 

_How long did it take to destroy a city?_

 

Taylor would never answer, no matter the inflection, for two reasons. First, the answer was a matter of public record. If someone wanted to know, they should try _there_ instead of bringing up bad memories for _her_. Second, and tying into the first; it was none of their goddamn business. They may have had every right to ask, but no right whatsoever to expect an answer.

 

Sometimes, when she hovered in the moments between sleep and waking, she thought about how she _would_ answer, if she ever decided to. Would she be somber, say something like _not nearly long enough?_ Would she be factual, say _by Nilbog's hive? Two weeks. By Eidolon? A little more than eight hours_. Both had the dubious benefit of being true, and both did nothing to convey the breadth of emotion she'd felt that day. In defense of her hypothetical self's choice of words, she didn't think she would ever possess the wordcraft to express it.

 

But that was the future. In that moment, dirty and bloody and heavy with failure, she could only grip Lisa's hand and look up at Eidolon's clean, crisp figure. At the span of his spread arms and the billow of his hooded cape. At the spiraling ropes of iridescent force swirling around him. The wind picked up as he built his power and died in the moments before he unleashed his attack.

 

Taylor hated him, just a little. Where was he when this all began?

 

=+= Chapter 50: The Prestige =+=

 

The worst part, she decided, was that there were too many choices for the _worst part_. Just...a panorama of sadness and suffering. Stretcher after stretcher of covered bodies being carried to a white, closed-off tent. Men and women carrying those too wounded to stand between them. Parahumans, once bright and glorious, now broken and despondent. Many of them held mask or helmet in hand and sat, sweat and tears dripping from their faces. Medics and healers, stained with blood, hurrying from patient to patient, knowing they were outnumbered by the dying and slowly ground down by the knowledge. Above all of that, the intermittent flare of their failure being erased. By the time it was done Eidolon would carve a crater fifty feet deep where the city once stood.

 

Taylor felt...she didn't know what she felt. Pain, as her injuries knit themselves back together. Pain, as the Light in her soul protested its near destruction. She'd pushed herself too far at the end.

 

What else could she have done?

 

Helplessness, from knowing that all of the people who died fighting with her died for nothing. In fact...a muscle in her cheek twitched as she felt a swell of anger. That was the worst fucking part. That everything that happened, everyone who fought so hard and did _so well_ and died like heroes did so for nothing.

 

“Taylor.” Lisa's voice was quiet, soft at her side. Full of sympathy she didn't want. “Baby, please look at me.”

 

With her free hand, Taylor tore off her helmet and threw it aside. It clattered and rolled off somewhere that didn't matter. She glared down. “ _What._ ”

 

She saw Lisa recoil from the anger in her eyes, then marshal herself. Bright green eyes, clear and oh so seeing peered right back. The _knowing_ in them was stronger than any anger Taylor could muster. “I'm here.” Lisa said it after a long moment of silence. “I don't – I don't fucking know what to say besides that. I'm here.”

 

“I...” Taylor's nose was stuffy. She snuffled, ran the back of her hand beneath it, smearing snot and dirt across her lip. “They were joking. The soldiers with me. Saying that they had the easy job. All they – all they had to do was _wait_ and watch me do all the work. They were laughing and alive and now they're dead. I thought...I thought, after Florida, it would get easier.”

 

Lisa stepped in close, lifting a hand to cup Taylor's cheek and pull her forehead down. They stood like that, pressed against each other, one leaning on the other for support and for love and the other giving all she could. “I don't think it will, Taylor. Watching someone go from living and breathing to dead...empty. I don't think it will ever get easier to see.” She wiped a thumb beneath Taylor's eye, scrubbing salt from her cheek. “Besides, it's not all bad. A lot of them got out because of you.”

 

“They were there in the first place because of me.”

 

“They were there because of _him_ , baby. Him and his monsters. Not you.”

 

“If I hadn't been there...”

 

“They all would be dead. I _know_ it hurts. I know. Tell me how to help. Tell me, and I'll do it.”

 

“I don't know. I don't know.” The well of anger broke, letting the tears building beneath come forth. Taylor let herself fall into the arms of the woman she loved and wept.

 

=+= Chapter 50: The Prestige =+=

 

Taylor sat, elbows on knees, head bowed. Lisa had gone off to find her some water and something to eat. She didn't see why. Her stomach was a sour, twisted knot in her gut. The _idea_ of food hurt. She wasn't really paying attention to the world around her, letting the drumming of feet and the rumble of engines and the murmur of voices blend into white noise. She could lose herself in it. She wanted to, but before she did a pair of boots appeared in the dirt in front of her.

 

“Hey.” said a woman's voice. It was hoarse and rough and familiar. She looked up, recognizing its owner as the woman who'd held them and the portal together long enough to get out. Her face was bruised and streaked with grime. Her arms were bandaged to the elbow, and a splint held her left leg steady. She looked terrible, gaunt and hunched, but her eyes – they were clear. “You look terrible, kid.”

 

Taylor huffed, a sound absent all humor. “It's going around.” She stood up, backing around the chair and gesturing at the vacant seat. “Here.”

 

Instead of protesting, the woman grunted thanks and sat gingerly. “Ah. Better. Walking with a cracked rib is always a bitch.” A thoughtful dip of her head followed. “Sitting's not much better, either. You ever bust a rib?”

 

“Yeah. A few times. But uh, I heal.”

 

The woman rolled her eyes. “Course you do. Lucky bi – er, _punk_. Can't be the career military girl who gets healing powers. Gotta be the kid in the cape.”

 

A distant, quiet part of herself, where the Hunter lived, was mildly outraged. “It's a cloak.”

 

The woman started to lift her arm, as if she meant to wave it at something, before wincing and changing her mind. “It's also pretty wrecked.”

 

“Fits the rest of me.”

 

A low sigh. “Shitty day, huh?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A minute or two of silence passed, neither companionable nor awkward. It was, Taylor supposed, the silence of two people far too tired to put any kind of emotion into being quiet. “Hey kid.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks. You let me bring my boys home.”

 

Tears burned at Taylor's eyes. “I – don't thank me.”

 

The woman nodded. “I bet you feel real guilty right now. Hell, you think I don't? I'm their commander, their _leader_. It's my job to get them through the shi – the stuff and out the other side alive and I failed my job today. Thing about guilt is, it'll eat you alive if you let it. Find something else to focus on.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“The ones who made it is what I usually think about.” The woman offered. Her shirt said Reeves, M. “Every phone call I don't have to make, every house I don't have to visit, every little kid I don't have to tell their parent isn't coming home. It's not much comfort, but it works for me. You gotta find what works for you.”

 

Lisa came back while Taylor was thinking about it. She wet a corner of her shirt and started cleaning Taylor's face and hands while running a stream of quiet complaints about the quality of the food. “... _not even a_ dog _would eat an MRE, seriously. They smell like feet. Spicy feet..._ ”

 

=+= Chapter 50: The Prestige =+=

 

General McKnight stood at a podium. The shadows beneath his eyes were deep and his skin was pale, gray around the edges. He looked like he'd aged a decade in an hour. The assembled forces of the Containment Wall – those who could still stand under their own power – sat in rows of chairs before him. Before it was the site of this, this had been a parking lot. Taylor's chair straddled a concrete beam, pitted and stained with rubber scrapings. After a moment's silence, he began to speak.

 

“I'm not even going to pretend we didn't get our goddamn teeth kicked in today. We did everything right, didn't we? We had the plans, we had the people, and we had enough ordnance to turn Lake Erie into a fucking sauna. We did all of it right, from start to finish, and we still got our asses beat. I'm not gonna stand up here and tell you how to feel. I don't have the words to turn this around, make all of you feel like we won when we didn't.

 

I can tell you how _I_ feel. I feel a lot of stuff right now, but most of all I'm angry. I'm angry as hell. I'm hiding it behind my girlish fucking demeanor, but I'm angry enough to chew iron and spit nails. Who does this asshole think he is? Where does he get off, attacking his own country, his own _people_ like this? Danny, you say, he's a nutjob, he doesn't have to make sense. I don't fucking care. I don't. Any right to empathy, to sympathy, that he had? He gave it up a long goddamn time ago.

 

 

I'm not gonna tell you what to do. I'm not. You wanna walk away, here and now? You've more'n done your duty. Take your honorable discharge and go home. But I'm asking you not to. You see, I'm going to Ellisburg, and I'm gonna need some pissed off motherfuckers. The baddest asses, the hardest hitting, sharpest shooting, foulest cursing soldiers ever produced by this country! We are going to take all of our wrath, all of our hate, and we are going to bring down on that shitty little kingdom like the wrath of Almighty God! I'm going to Ellisburg, and I am going to bring the mightiest, bravest warriors mankind has ever produced with me!

 

You fellas know where I can find me some people like that?”

 

The entire parking lot stood as one. Roars of anger, of defiance, of grief poured from the throats of the people in attendance. Taylor stood with them, hearing the words of Reeves, M. once more. _You gotta find what works for you_. She drew Howl and set it alight, solar flame pouring down the blade in a swirling corona of white-gold. She stood on her chair and held the brand aloft.

 

She'd go with wrath.

 

=+= Chapter 50: The Prestige =+=

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, we bring the Pittsburgh arc to a close. We also bring the story to its final arc. 
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> I don't know how to feel either. 
> 
> Anyway. You guys be sure to leave a comment to tell me what you thought. Leave a kudo or bookmark if you thought good things. 
> 
> See you soon.


End file.
